


And We Will Never Be Whole Again

by thequiet_ones



Category: Psych
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Apocalypse, Codependency, Depression, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, Mute - Freeform, Protectiveness, Romance, badassery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-28 12:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 20,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequiet_ones/pseuds/thequiet_ones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Juliet thinks she finally, finally, understands what the word bittersweet means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. So it Begins

**Author's Note:**

> So I've got most of this written already so updates shouldn't be a problem until at least the 30th chapter (yeah it's long). I figured this fandom could use a little more apocalyptic fic. I've also got a playlist for the fic up on 8tracks that you should listen to you. http://8tracks.com/thequietones/and-we-will-never-be-whole-again  
> Anyway, hope you like it.

_"I love the zombie apocalypse because it means that you are free. Freedom is not the same as safety, but you walk with fewer hands in your pocket not as many television words in your ears. I’d like to say, I want you to be there with me. I’d like to but,  
they will come and in all likelihood, we will not remain. We are prime candidates for gnawed intestines, unlocked doors and large windows— love how they let in the light, hate how they let in the flesh eating abominations— in all likelihood our bones will snap under grinding maddened teeth..." __\--Kevin Devany_

Chapter 1: So it Begins

“Shawn!!! God, leave it! Get in the car, now!!” Juliet screams at him from the car. 

The note of hysteria is obvious enough, especially to Shawn, even now in the midst of all this… this madness. 

So instead of taking the extra couple of steps back to grab his phone he dropped on the ground, he runs for the car. 

Juliet presses down on the gas before he’s even closed the door behind him. 

“Ungh. Spencer?”

“It’s going to be alright, Lassiter. Just hold on,” Shawn whispers, his throat closed up, moving Lassiter’s hands off his wound to replace them with his own. 

“I know. I’m fine, I’m fine.” 

He’s saying it around gritted teeth though, hands trembling, face too pale. 

He can hear Juliet breathing noisily through her nose; knows she too is trying not to breakdown. 

He whispers again, soft words to Lassiter. He wants to scream though, just scream and scream until he can’t speak and his throat is bleeding.

It used to be such a joke, a game. Gus and him planning it out since they were young children. But Gus is gone, gone, gone, gone. His dad probably too but he doesn’t actually know, just has to assume. Lassiter, he can’t be Carlton, it’s too much of an acknowledgement of everything that is so, so wrong, bleeds onto the car seats, his head on Shawn’s shoulder. 

Juliet, at least; thank god, and him are untouched and that, that’s a miracle. And it will be a consolation later, in a way, that they have each other still, but right now he can’t think past _Gus, dad, Gus, Gus, Gus, dad, dad._

A mile away, already now, his phone lies in the grass in front of his and Juliet’s modest home. The screen glows still showing the date, 2:13 a.m. March 13, 2015. The date the zombie apocalypse arrives in Santa Barbara.


	2. If I Could Save Just One, Maybe That Would Save Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Um… supposedly I don't own Psych or any of the characters in it. Not yet, at least, [insert evil laugh].
> 
> Summary: This is how it ends...this is the only way it could end.
> 
> Notes: Yay, update! Listen to /thequietones/and-we-will-never-be-whole-again on 8tracks to get the full experience. Hope everyone's liking it! Let me know 'cause it'll make me happy.

Chapter 2: If I Could Save Just One, Maybe That Would Save Me

_...When the backup brigade, former yakuza katana wielding badasses shows up a second too late, you bitten, me carried by Kevlar hands back to an ambulance turned sanitation van. Even if they get there on time, get both of us back to the van, bite free, safe for a second until the zombos clutching hands find the pins out of their grenades, and the explosion tosses the van on its side a tin can, rolling through the bad part of Z-ville a roulette of newly found death sentences..._

-KEVIN DEVANEY

Gus was torn apart, eaten alive before his eyes. There is no amount of time or distance that will ever erase that memory.

They're flying down a road that used to have a speed limit of 45, not stopping for anyone. And there are a lot of anyones. The plan is to follow the GPS to an out of the city hospital and try to patch Lassiter up.

And really that has to be some joke too, that it's Lassiter here with them and that he's bleeding out not from a bite but a gunshot. It was accidental, some rookie fired in the chaos. Juliet, _god Juliet,_ managed to get them both out of there and came to pick him up. Shawn was camped out on the roof, of their house, their new house, barely even done unpacking.

Shawn still _sees everything, remembers everything._

It has never been more of a curse than it is now.

It takes two extra hours after they get there to get Lassiter any medical attention. The place is swarming with desperate, sobbing people and five doctors. It's almost surprisingly organized though. As much as any hospital really ever is. They've got people with guns at the parking lot and doors keeping bitten people and zombies out. It takes a while to convince them that the slick blood seemingly everywhere is from a gun shot wound and even longer waiting for any of the doctors to treat Lassiter. Inside the white washed, antispetic walls it's business as usual.

Really they're lucky that in the end, although it tore a piece of his side, it's just a flesh wound, just a graze actually.

The lady who sews Lassiter up gives them some drugs and bandages too. There are dried tear tracks on her face but the fierce expression and tense set of her shoulders negates that. Not that three of them aren't a second away from blubbering.

Lassiter, thank god, passed out when she began cleaning the wound. She tells them that they can stay only until he wakes up, that besides the blood loss, he'll be fine, that the most important thing now is making sure that he doesn't succumb to shock or pull the stitches. The dead are like sharks she says attracted by the sense of blood, of weakness.

She looks at them first, their blood soaked bodies, Gus', Carlton's, people they've worked with everyday for almost a decade, pointedly.

Juliet, still, always, a cop, a protector, looks around the hospital at all the blood, dying, and weakness, then at their doctor.

She smiles then, really does, not grim or fake. She's proud, Shawn will later realize. "I fully expect to die here."

She walks away, already focused on another injured person.

Juliet thinks about the gun on her hip and Lassiter's, the one stuffed into the back of Shawn's pants, the other's stowed away in Lassiter's car. Thinks about the armory back at the station, knows they are going to have to go back.

Thinks that everybody has their purpose in this new world.


	3. The Gap Between The People We Were and The People We Have Become

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is how it ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've also got a playlist for the fic up on 8tracks that you should listen to you. /thequietones/and-we-will-never-be-whole-again. YAY PLAYLIST!  
> Anyway, hope you like it.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been reviewing!!!

_I cannot think of a way I’d like to see you die, but I know, if I had my choice, it wouldn’t involve chewing or bodily mutilation because, I really like you. I know it’s a strange way to say I love you, but if you got bit, I would shotgun you in the face.It’s nothing personal, it’s just how we survive around here. If you got bit, you’d smell like blood these things aren’t unlike sharks the hordes you’d attract would be monstrous and in all likelihood you’d get eviscerated by starving zombies, and in all likelihood that’d mean chewing and bodily mutilation, but love has never been a child of likelihood, I know we will both die in time._

_-Kevin Devaney_

Chapter 3: The Gap Between the People We Were and the People We Have Become

 

Juliet drives again. Shawn knows she’s worried about the too obvious tremble in his hands and the way he can’t stop gagging every now and then.

 

“We need a Wal-Mart or some buy-in-bulk store, somewhere with bathrooms, clothes, and a lot stocked food,” he offers quietly.

 

“Here,” she tosses him the GPS, “find what we need.”

 

She drives.

 

She does not think about the fact that her parents and two brothers stopped answering her calls two weeks ago. She does not think about the fact that she knows why they stopped now. She does not hope that Ewan, at least, is still alive.

 

Juliet just drives.

 

She thinks that having a detective’s mind, or Shawn’s mind, has never been such a curse as it is now.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Lassiter thinks that he never would have chosen to be partnered with Shawn in the event of the apocalypse. Which now that he’s actually living through an apocalypse, he realizes is stupid. _Living through an apocalypse._

 

Spencer is an excellent shot, astoundingly intelligent, and stupidly brave. Just because Carlton won’t say it out loud doesn’t mean he’s unaware. All of that more than makes up for his crazy antics.

 

Of course, there are no crazy antics.

 

Not even a poor, fake attempt at humor.

 

Lassiter glances over at Spencer, it’s not subtle but he doesn’t need to be; Spencer is staring at the door to the employee’s bathroom with a single-minded focus, gun held deceptively loose in his lap. There’s still a garish smudge of blood across his cheek, Carlton wonders absently if it’s his or Gus’ blood. And that’s a too weird thought, his blood all over Shawn.

 

Shawn, who is too pale and-gaunt. It’s really only been a day now, how does someone look gaunt after a day? Lassiter is the one with thirteen stitches in his side. 

 

No, Lassiter thinks that there might never be any more humor from the man beside him.

 

The store has one small shower stall in the employee’s bathroom. Juliet is out in the store choosing them all a change of clothes while Shawn and him sit here.

 

Shawn was very obviously reluctant to let her leave his sight but whatever she said to him worked. Lassiter knows that if they lose her, he’ll undoubtedly lose Shawn as well; they might still lose Shawn.

 

He remembers too the hollow sound of Juliet’s voice, even through his haze of pain, after she got off the phone with Shawn when they were pealing away from station.

 

He remembers the tense set of her jaw that meant she was grinding her teeth into dust, even through the constant litany of _zombies, zombies, zombies, zombies._

 

“Gus is dead,” She said. _Gus is dead._

 

And Lassiter understands, Gus is their linchpin. _Was, was, was._


	4. I Found Family in Your Eyes When I Had Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've also got a playlist for the fic up on 8tracks that you should listen to you. /thequietones/and-we-will-never-be-whole-again.  
> YAY PLAYLIST!  
> Anyway, hope you like it.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been reading!
> 
> Also, PLEASE don't hate me about Marlowe; I wrote the majority of this before she was really a character and I am too lazy to try to add or change anything now that's she in the show and awesome. Sorry!

  
_I know we will both die in time. I still can't think of a way I'd like to see you go, but I can think of this:_

_We build a tree house, way out in the middle of the woods. Every morning, we eat the nutrition bars we stole from the grocery store after no one owned the grocery store. You teach me yoga, we both lift weights, because being agile and strong are important now. One morning we decide, if we're to fight off the zombie apocalypse, we should probably know how to fire a gun._

-KEVIN DEVANEY 

Chapter Four: I Found Family in Your Eyes When I Had Nothing

After they each take a shower, change clothes, and eat a meal of the assortment of perishable food Juliet took the time to grab, Lassiter falls asleep. Juliet and Shawn decide to take turns guarding the door and sleeping.

Tomorrow, they will make plans and worry but tonight, tonight they mourn.

Lassiter wakes up with a sudden lurch, the searing, ripping pain follows immediately, freezing him up with a choking gasp.

Spencer is beside him, in a moment, hands fluttering, murmuring things Carlton can't decipher through the dizzying pain. He's eased back onto the cold ground, gentle and slow.

"You can't move fast like that, ok, ok, ok?" Shawn whispers, reaching for the hem of Lassiter's shirt, "I just need to make sure you didn't pull any of them."

Lassiter does his best to grit out something that's supposed to sound like "Go ahead."

Shawn scrutinizes the garish black stitching carefully before fixing his shirt. His fingers hover just above the wound, tremoring. "Looks ok. They're all still there and it looks clean, not infected. It's probably just the loss of adrenaline and shock that's making it worse."

He wants to say that he still has plenty of adrenaline, nerves humming with it, and that he's definitely still in shock.

"Blood loss too. Hold on," Shawn says, stepping away.

He's back in a second holding out a couple slices of bread from last night and a candy bar.

"Carbs and sugar. When you eat that, we have Ibuprofen too."

Shawn sits down beside him, silent and that is too, too wrong. Carlton wishes he would say something stupid, fidget and flail maybe, or call him Lassie.

He's done with the chocolate and one of the bread slices when Spencer finally speaks.

"Can I use your phone?" He sounds hesitant, like he really thinks Carlton will say no. "It's just that neither Juliet or I have ours and I need to try my dad and mom again." He's gritting his teeth now and won't look at Lassiter.

"Yeah, of course," he breathes, "It's in my pants pocket over there."

A soft thanks and he's gone. Carlton wonders if he should call someone, thinks there should be someone. His parents have both been dead for a couple years now. Victoria and he haven't spoken in nearly six years and hated each other for the two before that. He doubts the number he has for her is even right. Marlowe, of course, but the prison was overrun from the inside out, all of them trapped in that small space. Plus, she doesn't have a phone or a number he could even call but if she did survive and if she gets a phone, she has his number. But that's too many ifs for him.

He has never been a man to hold onto hope.

The truth, he realizes, is the first people he would have called are with him right now, Juliet, Shawn, Gus. He briefly debates when it was they came to mean so much to him, when they wormed their way into his life, his heart.

It's quickly overwhelmed by the wave of gratitude, of relief, of momentary peace because except for Gus, they are here safe and alive with him.

Lassiter thinks that he will have to step up to the plate Gus left him, protect and cheer up these two precious people. He wonders if Shawn has already tried calling Gus' family, his siblings and parents. Who is still left in this new, awful, awful world?

Especially when he can hear the sound of an automated voice telling Spencer that the number he has dialed has been disconnected and then watching as the call to his mother just rings and rings and rings. He doesn't leave a voicemail, features crumbled.

He hands the phone back without a word.

Carlton is guiltily relieved when Juliet chooses that moment to wake up and wrap her arms around Shawn. They stay still like that, tangled with each other for a long moment. Lassiter focuses on his piece of bread.

"How are your stitches?" Juliet asks him, some kind of pathetic attempt at a smile on her face.

"Can't complain."

"They're all alright. I checked. Gave him some food and the ibuprofen, too," Shawn steps in for him when Juliet glares at his answer.

Juliet frowns even as she says, "Ok."

Turning back to Shawn, she tries, "You should try to sleep again. You've been awake for over 48 hours now."

"Can't," Shawn whispers, and Lassiter thinks he wasn't supposed to hear that. They stare at each other, like they're actually holding a silent conversation.

"Fine. If we're all up then, we can work on a plan."

"We need to work quickly before other people start venturing out of wherever they're hunkered down. The first places to be hit will be the stores and the precinct for the guns and we have to have cleaned both out first."

"Right. We have to take Lassiter's injury into account though."

"He'll stay up here while we pack the car with as much as we can fit. I still don't hear anyone else in here. The car is already pretty much against the front door and we have each other's backs. Lassiter is still Lassiter. Stitches or not, he can still shoot anyone who tries to get in here," Shawn explains, glancing at Lassiter for confirmation.

"You've got it all planned out already, don't you?" Lassiter says. It doesn't sound hostile, like it would've only a couple of days ago.

Shawn nods slowly, brows furrowed, like he understands that there's more to that question than what was said. Lassiter doesn't think he would be able to explain if Shawn asks; he just has the sudden feeling that he's figured something out about Spencer that he should known a long time ago.

Instead he says, "You should have an extra person out there with you. I can have your backs."

He watches as Juliet and Shawn share a too quick glance before Juliet speaks up, "It'd be better if you stay here while we pack. The faster you heal, the safer we all are."

This time he nods, "Got it."

He decides it's best not to tell them, admit to them, that he fears they will leave him here. Him, weak, injured, vulnerable, handicapped, a liability. It's natural selection, after all, right?

He has never been a man to hold onto hope or trust.


	5. The Emotion That Crawled Up My Throat and Smothered Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've also got a playlist for the fic up on 8tracks that you should listen to you. /thequietones/and-we-will-never-be-whole-again.  YAY PLAYLIST!  
> Anyway, hope you like it.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been reading!

_So it’s during our first daylight raid of the shooting range that we realize loud noises, like gunfire attract zeek, zed and zoe,_

_the place goes dark because the windows are all hands._

_Then, from the sky the katana wielding badasses’ helicopter hits the roof, no grenades no pins, cause they’re not amateurs, air lifts us to the top of Devil’s Tower where, despite guard posts and razor wire, society has remembered itself. What is had is given._

_We would grow as old as our bodies would let us; your hair would go white and it would be beautiful. One day you would pass. I cannot know the sadness of that day, but I know this:_

_this is a future we could walk to if the undead weren’t grating at our options with their teeth and palms and certain doom.This is a fate that no one, dead or otherwise, could swallow for us._

\--KEVIN DEVANEY 

Chapter 5: The Emotion That Crawled Up My Throat and Smothered Me

 

Shawn tucks the gun into the back of pants. He both hates and loves the feel of it. The protection and security it offers him, the thin film covering the depth of his despair and hopelessness, contrasted by the heavy lethality, the wrongness, the reality, of it, the reminder.

 

None of this feels real, _a game, a joke, pretend,_ despite the evidence all around him. And his mind has always been able to discern reality from all of the fake this world produces.

 

“Okay, Anything and everything canned, as many water bottles as we can fit, and we’re going to clean out their health and medicine aisles. After that, we can see about what, if any, perishables we want,” Shawn whispers, listening and looking for any disturbances.

 

“Shawn,” Juliet replies gently, pleadingly maybe.

 

He knew, in the back of his mind, how uncomfortable this Shawn made her. The one without all the jokes, the Shawn that had a single-minded focus, the one that used his gifts like a weapon. It’s a jolting realization that this is the man his father had wanted him to become.

 

“Jules, I-I-”

 

“It’s alright. I love you, okay?” Juliet interrupts, hands on either side of his face, forcing him to make eye contact.

 

“Love you too,” he presses sincerely, before turning away, “I’ll grab the first box, and you have my back.”

 

“Always.” She says it firmly like she can convince even death to let her remain here, protecting the people she loves. 

 

Shawn bends down to pick up the large package of Campbell Soups from the aisles’ shelf.

 

An hour later, they’re loading packages of water bottles carefully in with all the canned food, like it’s a game of Tetris.

 

Canned soup, canned Chef Boyardee, canned meat, canned vegetables, and at least 30 jars of peanut butter. They clean out the snack aisles too, all of the chips, cookies, pop tarts, and granola bars.

 

“You want to do this, to go back to the station, the armory, to help people, right?”

Shawn asks suddenly, breaking the tense silence.

 

They were just barely outside, on the periphery of the door; the parking lot and the little of the street they could see was empty. The guns, however, as they would always be now, were close at hand, Juliet’s in her holster, Shawn’s in his hand. It’s late afternoon and the sun is blindingly fierce; at odds with the gray, rainy atmosphere Shawn had always associated the end of the world with.

 

Juliet pauses now and just looks at him. He thinks maybe that she is disappointed.

 

“We’d have to go for the guns, ammo, anyway.”

 

“But that’s not why were going,” Shawn prods.

 

“What do you want me to say? We both know each other’s opinions. We could protect people, Shawn, the three of us are all fighters, excellent shots. We could even teach others. It’s our moral obligation,” Juliet whispers harshly, “You heard that doctor she’s going to stay there saving who she can until they come for her.”

 

“Our job is to look out for each other, just the three of us,” Shawn hisses back. He is so very afraid.

 

“Shawn, I know-” She cuts herself off the moment she sees Shawn’s entire body tense.

 

“Duck!” It’s a harsh, swift command. Even Shawn knows it sounds nothing like him. Juliet drops down immediately, instinctively, though. Her gun in her hand before she’s even aware. Shawn shoots twice at something behind her.

 

“It’s dead,” Shawn says hollow, distant. He doesn’t lower the gun, hands clenching and unclenching, swiveling around, making sure they’re alone again. Juliet stands slowly turning to look at the _zombie_ Shawn shot.

 

He knows what she will see.

 

It looks like it was once a girl of about 15; hard to tell now with the gash in her stomach and disturbing gray pallor of her skin. The two bullet holes in her forehead make it difficult as well.

 

Shawn turns, beside Juliet, and stares again at _her, it_. He clenches his jaw and ignores the tremor in his hands.

 

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll go back and help them. You’re right.”

 

She doesn’t really respond to his admittance and he has to assume it’s a sort of forgiveness. Instead she shoves at him with one hand, shutting the car’s trunk with the other.

 

“Come on, we need to get back inside. We don’t know if there are more close by or if they’re attracted to sound. We’ll pack the medical supplies later.”

 

\---------------------------------------------

Juliet stares out the window of the store, gaze searching.

 

“Hey, Are you both okay!?”

 

Juliet whirls around. Of course, of course, Lassiter had heard the gun shot. She hadn’t even thought of that.

 

He’s pale, leaning heavily against the wall, the fear and desperation clearly evident on his face in a way it had never been when they were just cops.

 

“Yeah, yeah we’re both good. It was just one and it’s dead,” Juliet answers, moving towards him.

 

He had managed to drag himself off the floor and all the way to the front of the store to find them, because he heard the gunshot. Juliet felt a wave of emotion for the gruff man, who always tried to claim a lack of feelings.

 

“Good, good,” he breathes, “I was-worried about you two.” The pause before the admittance is barely noticeable.

 

Juliet wraps her arms, gently, barely touching, around him.

 

She thinks that it would take a zombie apocalypse for Lassiter to start expressing his emotions. She thinks that she is proud of this man and grateful, grateful that he is still here, that Shawn is still here.

 

And Shawn is suddenly there by their sides, also patting Lassiter, reassuring each other.

 

And Juliet thinks she finally, _finally_ , understands what the word _bittersweet_ means.

 

“Come on, let’s get you back into the room,” she says, soft.

 

Juliet takes up one side of Lassiter and Shawn takes the other.


	6. In This Silence We Could Not Hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've also got a playlist for the fic up on 8tracks that you should listen to you. /thequietones/and-we-will-never-be-whole-again. YAY PLAYLIST!  
> Anyway, hope you like it.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been reading!

  
_"When did the future switch from being a promise to being a threat?"_

-Chuck Palahnuik, Invisible Monsters

Chapter 6: In This Silence We Could Not Hide

Later, when the sun is setting and they've all eaten a couple of pieces of bread and candy bars, Juliet and Shawn go back out to pack all the medical supplies.

Lassiter feels a lot better, like he can actually imagine being completely healthy at some point.

He's sitting up, at least, now and as long as he doesn't move or breathe too deeply, everything's good. He stares at his feet for a while thinking, decides that thinking goes nowhere he's interested in.

A half hour later, he realizes he is bored, very bored. This is the stuff that isn't in the books, movies, TV shows, the hours, days spent doing nothing, staring at your feet, as time slowly ticks by, relentless.

No music, no TV, no games, no jokes, barely any company.

Another thirty minutes pass by before Shawn and Juliet return.

"Car's packed with everything we could possibly fit. We'll leave in the morning," Juliet tells him, sitting close on the ground.

"Look at what we brought?" Shawn announces, locking the door behind them.

He's got two big, probably once upon a time expensive bottles of alcohol and Juliet's carrying two cartoons of ice cream.

Lassiter opens his mouth to say that it's probably not the best idea for them to be drinking, letting down their guard. Feels like maybe he needs to be the responsible one here, because the truth is Juliet and Shawn are still so young sometimes.

Juliet is staring pointedly at him though and very slightly shakes her head. And he understands, they are not young anymore.

There are three doors between them and the undead anyway.

\-------------------------------------

They end up playing never have I ever, each of them being careful to keep everything light-hearted.

Their laughter is soft and mostly fake, but they are safe for a moment, warm, full of alcohol and ice cream, with people they love. Sleep comes easy this night, due to the alcohol and the ever present gnawing exhaustion all three feel.

Outside the world continues to fall apart.

\-------------------------------------

Shawn takes the first watch. Wakes her six hours later that feel more like two.

She watches him try to fight sleep for a while before he inevitably passes out. Lassiter sleeps so completely still she worries once that he's died.

Juliet turns away from them to the door and tries not to think of her family in the silence. She wishes somebody had told her how silent it was going to be, like you've entered a soundless vacuum where silence becomes a roaring thing, tangible.

\-------------------------------------

Shawn wakes with a sudden jerk and startle. Lassiter is softly snoring, snuffling to his left and to his right, Juliet is sitting up, awake by the door.

"You've barely been asleep for two hours. Go back to sleep, Shawn. This isn't healthy or safe," Juliet speaks into the silence, reprimanding, trying to guilt him into it.

She must know though, she must know that demanding is always the wrong way to deal with him. Even now, he can't stamp down the stubborn insolence that rises, rises, like his quickening pulse.

"I'm fine."

He scoots up next her, leaning against the wall, and kisses her cheek. Thinks maybe he will throw a couple of jokes around, flirt a little like nothing's changed. He quits before he even tries though, his dream still dancing at the edges of his vision. _What's the point? What's the point?_

"Do you think we'll be ok?" Juliet asks after several silent minutes. He's not sure she's even talking to him truthfully.

And he wishes she hadn't asked because suddenly the fog he's been living in breaks and anger comes flooding out, raw and scared. He wants to yell, to ask, to beg, _How is this supposed to end? What do you mean by okay?_

All he can see are graves, and dead flesh, empty eyes, and snapping mouths, the steady drip of blood.

For a moment, he can see Gus' face, alive and unmarred. 

"I don't know, Jules. I don't know."

She doesn't respond and he knows she must have known the answer to her question already. He's not the only one who saw someone torn apart. Had she wanted him to lie to her?

Minutes later, she's asleep on his shoulder.

He is left alone to the quiet.

It eats him alive.


	7. We Accidentally Read The Last Page and Now We've Lost All Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've also got a playlist for the fic up on 8tracks that you should listen to you. /thequietones/and-we-will-never-be-whole-again. YAY PLAYLIST!  
> Anyway, hope you like it.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been reviewing!
> 
> Also, TRIGGER WARNING!-mention of panic attack and panic attack almost occurs 
> 
>  
> 
> I hope no one feels that Shawn is overly OOC in this story. I based some of his characterization on the episode An Evening with Mr. Yang, when Madeline was kidnapped. Then I subtracted Gus and imagined what Shawn would be like in a crisis without his brother.

  
_There is no escape,_  
From the slave-catchers' songs.  
For all of the loved ones gone.  
Forever's not so long.  
And in your soul,  
They poked a million holes.  
But you never lett 'em show.  
C'mon it's time to go. 

_And_  
You  
Already know.  
Yeah, you already know  
How this will end. 

_And_  
You  
Already know.  
Yeah, you already know  
How this will end. 

_How this will end._

-How it Ends, Devotchka 

Chapter 7: We Accidentally Read the Last Page and Now We've Lost All Hope

Lassiter wakes slowly to the soft murmur of voices. His side feels stretched, tight, a burning when he moves. Sleep pulls at him, tries to bury him in false warmth even here on the cool, tiled bathroom floor.

He aches foolishly, ridiculously for a large, hot cup of jolting coffee.

He sits up slowly instead, with a small grunt that shuts Shawn and Juliet up fast.

"Carlton, hold on. Let me help you up," Juliet is suddenly right beside him hands on his arms.

"I've got it, O'Hara," he says gruffly.

"Stubborn bastard," she mumbles. All he wants to do is laugh because it's exactly what she would've said days ago and its suddenly such a relief that his partner is still here with him.

When he's finally standing up right beside them, he notices the grim line Shawn's mouth is in, a face Lassiter never would've imagined the young man could make until two days ago, and the nervous twitch of Juliet's hands.

"Nothing-"

"There are at least 11…" Shawn pauses like even he can't believe he's about to say this, "zombies out there. Some are feeding on the one we killed yesterday and the others are trying to get in the car." He shifts again frustrated, eyes skipping around like he's fighting to focus and losing, then he continues.

"Which isn't a problem, we can kill them. We just want to be careful with ammunition since we don't know what to expect when we get to the precinct."

"I have a couple of extra boxes of ammunition in the glove box," Lassiter offers.

"See. I told you he would," Juliet says, "We'll be fine."

Lassiter can't help feeling like he missed the point of this conversation.

"Fine," Shawn scoffs, pulling open the door to their sanctuary and stalking out.

Juliet shakes her head at him when Lassiter tries to ask what's going on.

"Come on," Juliet urges, supporting Lassiter still as they follow after Shawn, "Before he does something stupid."

They walk in tense silence for a moment through the aisles of pet food until Juliet breaks it, bitterness lacing her words, "Anyway I figured you would prefer this version of Shawn."

"Juliet, you know-" he can't say that immature, goofing off, over-the-top Spencer was something he enjoyed but- "this, this isn't even Shawn. This isn't what I wanted. And you know I've never really _hated_ him, not even in the beginning."

O'Hara's shoulders slump and she sighs, "I know, Carlton. Sorry, I really didn't mean that."

"I know. It's okay, we'll be okay. We're tired and stressed and scared. Lashing out will happen," Lassiter assures quietly. He nudges her forward when she stops to stare at Shawn who's standing at one of the doors, watching the dead, his shoulders tensed.

"He'll be okay."

Shawn doesn't look at them or say anything when they edge up right beside him. He automatically shifts closer to Lassiter to help support him though.

And that's enough.

"You know I'm not just going to stay in here and watch you both out there," Lassiter says firmly.

Juliet nods, eyes soft. She doesn't think she would be able to just watch the people she loves risk their lives either.

"Just stay against the wall. Don't get involved unless you need too," she agrees, watching Carlton's face closely for any indication that he's going to do something stupid.

"We ready then?" she asks her boys, her finger on the trigger.

And is it wrong if she's a little excited?

It feels like she's standing on the edge of somewhere too, too high; the same way she felt as she graduated high school and then later, the day she decided to accept the job in Santa Barbara and move across the country.

She kills her first zombie with a clean shot to the head, Shawn by her side and Lassiter at her back.

She looses track of the numbers shortly after this and soon enough she'll loose the thrill too.

She glances quickly back at Lassiter to make sure he's okay, careful not to turn her back on the dead that are still scrambling aimlessly to get in the car. He's supporting himself against the wall of the store, gun aimed at the zombie eagerly feeding on Shawn's kill from the day before.

A couple of the dead from the car are ambling slowly to her and Shawn now as if they realized that they were a better source of food. Do the dead have the capacity to learn?

Shawn shoots both of them, in quick succession, his hands and aim steady, not like yesterday. He looks so, so wrong like this with his mouth a tight line of anger and Carlton's 9mm Beretta.

"Make sure you don't shoot out any of the car windows," Juliet says to Shawn, moving around to get to the other side of the car.

She carefully shoots the one that's climbed half on top of the car, waits for it to slip motionlessly to the ground before shooting the other two. Moving closer, when one of them keeps twitching on the ground, she gets a better look at all three.

The twitching one looks somewhat familiar, the same time her brain reminds her that one of her neighbors back when she was living in an apartment complex moved out here. He fed her cats whenever she was stuck at the station too late. Gun raised, finger on the trigger, she shoots him and makes sure he's dead for real this time. Tells herself that it was her mind playing tricks on her.

_Early this morning, Shawn had said, "You know it's going to be people we know back at the station. We're going to have to kill people we spent the last seven years with. Can you do that?"_

But right now the same man is screaming at her, "Jules! Jules! You good over there?!" He sounds nearly hysterical, yelling in a gasping voice, like he's on the brink of a panic attack.

"Yeah!" She yells back as she makes a tense circle of the car coming back around to him and Lassiter.

Shawn's wiping a fine splatter of blood off his cheek with frenzied movements, clawing at his skin, chest heaving with each panicked inhale.

"Hey, hey. Shawn, it's okay," she assures, grabbing his hand and stilling it. Using her sleeve, she carefully cleans the blood from his face.

Lassiter's there suddenly too, looking at Shawn with a soft expression she's never seen him direct at anyone.

"It's just a little blood splatter. You're okay," Carlton says over her shoulder.

"Everything's okay, we're all okay. You need to breathe. Okay, slow, inhale, hold it and let go, hold it and let go," Juliet presses, cupping his clean cheek in her one hand, the other still wrapped around his hand. Her and Gus, and she supposes his parents too, are the only ones that know about Shawn's too frequent panic attacks.

"No, no, no." Shawn takes a jerky step back out of her grip, gaze wild.

"Why do you keep saying that?! It's not okay! None of this is okay! We're not okay and were not going to be!" Shawn yells at them.

Huffing, he continues, not yelling anymore just defeated, "How do you two think this is going to end? Don't lie, do not lie to me. We already know how this will end."

A pause. A shuddering breath.

"We're going to die. Maybe not today or even tomorrow but we're going to die," Shawn finishes.

Juliet wants to say something, anything but in her peripheral vision she can she something in Lassiter's expression and then he's speaking, "Damn it Spencer, you think we don't know that. So what? What difference does it make?"

Shawn's body sags and he breathes deeply just staring at them. He's relieved, she thinks.

Juliet approaches him slowly, like you would for a frightened animal. When he doesn't resist, she wraps her arms around him, tight, drawing into him close and waits for him to reciprocate. It only takes a moment.

"Right now, Shawn, we're okay," she whispers in his ear. He nods into her shoulder, whispers that he loves her.

God, she wishes love was enough.

"Ready?" Lassiter asks when she pulls away from Shawn, hands lingering on him.

Shawn steps away from her and straight into Lassiter, wraps his arms around the man. Lassiter's face cycles through surprise and confusion and then to something sad and soft.

He pats Shawn slowly, once, on the back.

Lassiter suddenly goes rigid, eyes blinking fast and ducks his face down onto Shawn's shoulder. She knows then, without any real proof just a knowledge of the person Shawn is, that Shawn has told Lassiter he loves him too.


	8. The Good Samaritan Was Lost Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've also got a playlist for the fic up on 8tracks that you should listen to you. /thequietones/and-we-will-never-be-whole-again. YAY PLAYLIST!  
> Anyway, hope you like it. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been reading!
> 
> There a couple of OCs in this but don't worry they're minor and in the background.

  
_"Survivors aren't always the strongest; sometimes they're the smartest, but more often simply the luckiest."_

― Carrie Ryan, The Dark and Hollow Places

Chapter 8: The Good Samaritan Was Lost Too

The three of them climb into the car without another word, stepping past the dead bodies.

Shawn is right though. They will all die. There will be no happy ending here.

The car ride is silent; not tense, more it's that their just exhausted. Juliet drives, speeding because she can and wonders if this is stupid. What if there is no one left to protect?

Shawn sits crammed too close to Lassiter digging his fingernails into his arm to keep himself awake. He feels guilty and ashamed about his freak out earlier. He wants to hold it together for them.

Lassiter plans for when they get to the station.

A man is screaming, pleading in broken cries.

Shawn startles awake; he couldn't have been asleep for more than a couple of minutes but the car is stopped now in the middle of the street. The crying man is at Juliet's window, a young boy's hand clutched tightly in his hand, his son based off their features. Both of them are holding baseball bats. The man's bat has dripped a small puddle of blood onto the ground.

The boy's maybe 6 or 7, adorable in a small child way, small and gangly, probably was picked on at school but would've grown into his body, played baseball, treated his girlfriends with respect, excelled in his classes, studied something important, made his parent's quietly proud….

Shawn stops. This is a future the boy could have had before everything. Now he'll be lucky to get a tomorrow.

Watching the two closely, he looks for any indication that either of them has been bitten. Their dark brown skin does nothing to hide the dirt and bruises; the past few days have clearly been a trial for them. There's nothing that looks like a bite mark though and neither appear to be trying to conceal anything. The only oddity he sees is the nasty patch of scar tissue along one side of the boy's throat; recent be all appearances. Shawn returns to the conversation.

"Please…please I'll help however you need it. I'm-I was a pediatric surgeon I could help with his injury," the man is begging, "Please we're not-we're not going to survive out here alone. I just my son…please."

"I-There's not much room. We could dump something out of the car," He can hear the tears in Juliet's voice, "But we're going back into the city. I'm sorry. It's going to be dangerous. You're probably better off without us."

And that is a lie.

"All we have our these bats, we're on foot. My son-Please, just."

The man is wearing a Rolex and fancy jogging shoes. Shawn thinks this man has probably never had to beg for anything.

"We could give you a gun, maybe," Juliet suggests.

"No, we can't. We need what we have for taking the station if we want to have a fighting chance," Lassiter says to Juliet, voice soft, apologetic.

"If they want to come, we can fit them. They just have to know we can't guarantee them survival. The boy can sit on my lap and if we dump that one package of water bottles right here he can kind of sit on the floor," Shawn cuts in.

Lassiter jumps a little, when he begins speaking, only now noticing Shawn had woken up.

"Shawn, I'm not sure-"

"We need more manpower anyway, right," Shawn repeats firmly.

The man can't see either him or Lassiter from where he's standing and Lassiter has tinted windows, of course, but Shawn can see the man's desperate, hopeful face turned towards the sound of his voice.

"He's right," Lassiter confirms beside him, "Are you sure about this though? The police station is going to be dangerous."

"Yes." The man answers firmly, squaring his shoulders, trying to look useful.

Shawn thinks it's funny.

"Okay. Shawn, dump the water bottles then. My name's Juliet O'Hara, the injured guy is Carlton Lassiter, and the third is Shawn Spencer. We're-" Juliet pauses, glancing back at him, and Shawn can't figure out what that look on her face is, worries that's going to become a common thing now.

"We're all cops," She ends up saying. Shawn doesn't know what that means for him. He climbs carefully over Lassiter though and out of the car. The 24 pack of water that had been squeezed sideways against a tower of canned products gets left on the road.

The man looks ready to drop with relief; he's probably slept less than Shawn in the last 72 hours. "Oh god. Thank you so much. I'm Michael Bier and this is my son, Dylan."

Dylan says nothing.

A groan sounds from the trees to the right of the car and suddenly everyone jumps into action.

Shawn steps out of the way of the door, pointing at the small spot cleared on the floor.

"You're going to have squat there. It's tight but the drive's not much longer," Shawn tells Michael as he also carefully maneuvers over and around Lassiter.

Another groan from the woods.

"Okay, Dylan. I'm going to get in first then you follow but be careful not to hurt Lassiter," Shawn tells the boy lightly, calmly, despite the wild beat of his heart.

When they've climbed in, Shawn's legs stretched up awkwardly on the back of the center arm rest so Michael can sit half beneath them, Lassiter shuts the door.

"Hey, Dylan, you want play 'Would you Rather'? I've got to say I come up with the best scenarios," Shawn suggests brightly, faking, faking, faking.

"Oh-um. Dylan's mute. There was an-an accident a few months ago and my wife she-she-" He doesn't say it but they all know, "and Dylan's vocal cords were irreparably damaged."

Shawn nods, one hand twitching with the desire to touch the scars.

"Oh, I know sign language. Do you both?" Shawn asks, a fake, fake, fake smile on his face.

"You do?" Both Carlton and Juliet exclaim, surprised.

"Ah, I don't," Michael answers and the guilt is so obvious it hurts, "but Dylan picked it up really fast. He was getting private lessons."

"Awesome! Yes, I know sign language. I taught a class on it at a rec center in Arizona when I was 20," Shawn explains, rolling his eyes, fake, fake, fake.

His dad made him learn it when he was 11. Easy to pick up when you have a perfect memory. He thinks about Dylan, not being able to talk to his dad for months.

"I can teach you," Shawn offers Michael gently.

"That, that would be great. I guess nothing clears your schedule like the apocalypse," Michael tries to joke. It falls flat.

"Great! Game time, then! You take the first turn, Dylan." Dylan turns to sit sideways on his lap so he can see his signs.

"Would you rather," Dylan pauses, nose wrinkling in thought, "eat chewed gum that's stuck to someone's shoe or an entire basket of super, super, super hot wings?"

Shawn grins at the boy and it's not fake.


	9. This Loaded Gun is Not a Metaphor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've also got a playlist for the fic up on 8tracks that you should listen to you. /thequietones/and-we-will-never-be-whole-again. YAY PLAYLIST!  
> Anyway, hope you like it.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been reviewing!

  
_"I do care. That's why I hunt them. But if you've seen what I have, then you learn to deal with the murders and disappearances. You learn to push it aside and move on. The other life isn't here anymore. This new world has its own rules. Survival of the fittest is one of them. If you're hoping for kindness and pity, don't hold your breath."_

-Susanne Winnacker, The Other Life

Chapter 9: This Loaded Gun is Not a Metaphor

Lassiter has a handful of painkillers in his system when they arrive at the station. This is the only reason he can find to explain why he gives his service weapon to Michael, his beautiful, painstakingly oiled 9mm Glock 17.

"I'm assuming you haven't used a gun before," he sighs.

They're in the far back parking lot of the station, divvying up the weapons. All of them tense and jittery about being out in the open like this.

"Once when I was kid but I doubt that counts."

He holds the gun awkwardly, pointed down at the ground, his hand as far from the trigger as possible without dropping the gun. Lassiter wonders if it's a subconscious action.

A decade ago, when he was still a rookie cop fresh out the academy, he used to also teach gun safety classes as some attempt to appease Victoria about his pitiful income. He found that people were a lot more nervous around guns than even they expected themselves to be. They always held the gun like they could feel its weight, not the physical weight, it's real weight. It was a deadly weapon, first and foremost.

"It's fine. We're just going to give you a quick crash course because I don't want to get accidentally shot again." It's not a joke. He tries not to glare at Michael as he says it.

Lassiter doesn't like the addition of more people. It makes him nervous. He can trust Juliet and Shawn. He knows what he can expect from them.

"Right hand wrapped around up high-yeah like that-and keep your finger resting there unless you're ready to shoot. Okay, now left hand tight around the base, against your right hand."

Lassiter looks Michael over from his spot leaning against the car. "Does he look okay, Juliet?"

"Yeah. Not bad. Loosen your shoulders a bit and straighten this arm. Closer right here," she instructs.

"Okay now hold it up and look down the barrel. Can you see the sights? The two in the front on either side and then one in the middle at the end. Then adjust until the sight in the middle is exactly between the front two and they're all even. That should be good," Lassiter pauses, staring at the man's white-knuckle grip, "I'm sorry we can't afford the ammo for you to do any practice shots."

"Just try not to get hung up on the mechanics when we're actually in there. You know you're not going to have time," Juliet says softly, like she means it to be reassuring.

"You have sixteen shots. Don't waste them."

Lassiter turns away from him, trying to appear dismissive. Shawn's knelt down on the pavement talking to Dylan, fingers flying just as fast as he usually, used to, talk.

"Spencer, come here! I have more ammo for your gun."

He had already given Juliet the ammo for reloading her own Glock 17 but he kept a pretty decent amount of ammo and an extra magazine for the Beretta in his car since it was his personal weapon.

Lassiter watches as Shawn stands, ruffling the kid's hair as he replies to something the kid signs. When Shawn turns to Lassiter, he can see the obvious change from only hours ago when Spencer was defeated, hunched over, avoiding eye contact; now he stares straight back at Lassiter, shoulders back and rigid, something fierce and determined about him. Behind Shawn, Lassiter can see the boy staring at Shawn with open admiration.

He remembers too, something Juliet tried to talk to him about a couple of weeks ago, back when things were so deceptively normal. Shawn had apparently brought up the possibility of kids with her and as typical she was trying to talk to him about it, still expecting him to be a good partner and actually care about her personal life. He had brushed her off like he always did when she tried to talk to him about her and Shawn's relationship.

He thinks that, for Shawn, having the kid here can go two ways. He wants to tell Shawn not to get attached. The way Juliet's chewing on her lip says she fears the same. Carlton thinks about what Shawn said earlier, _"We already know how this is going to end."_

"Michael, first lesson, really simple," Shawn says, making a couple of slow motions with his hands when he walks over.

When Michael only stares at him, Shawn rolls his eyes and says, "Well, try it."

Michael copies Shawn easily, looking confused. "What's it mean?"

"I love you," Shawn answers quietly. Lassiter just hears the gasp Michael releases, because Shawn is staring straight at him and Juliet.

Michael looks over at his son. "God," he breathes, "Thank you."

As one, Shawn, Juliet, and Carlton, turn to watch Michael approach his son. It's not until he's signed the words and Dylan has thrown his arms around his father, squeezing like only a child can, that they turn away.

"He's just going to die isn't he? He isn't prepared for this. Doesn't even know how to use a gun," Shawn whispers.

Lassiter glances back at Michael and Dylan, "I don't know, Spencer. When someone's life is at stake, when their loved ones are in trouble, anyone can be dangerous."


	10. I Stood By Your Side In This Dark Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is how it ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've also got a playlist for the fic up on 8tracks that you should listen to you.  /thequietones/and-we-will-never-be-whole-again. YAY PLAYLIST!  
> Anyway, hope you like it.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been reviewing!

  
_“If the world wants you, it's gonna keep on coming till it gets you. And who am I that can fix it? Who am I that can change this if the world wants it so badly? Who am I to stop the end of the world if it keeps on coming?”_

-Patrick Ness, The Knife of Never Letting Go 

Chapter 10: I Stood By Your Side In This Dark Battle 

 

“Okay, this is what we’re going to do. We go in together, keep Dylan in the middle-We can’t take the chance of leaving him out here alone-, clear each room like usual. No one wanders away! Michael, you take the easy, urgent shots and the three of us will handle the rest. And-uh, Dylan, I want you to keep that bat, just in case.” Lassiter announces.

 

Juliet wants bitterly to laugh. There’s something achingly macabre about the scene in front of her.

 

Lassiter trying to talk to them like they were some kind of put together assault team, like he was their self-assured leader. Really though, he was barely able to stand up straight, lines of pain around his eyes. And there was her and Shawn-dark circles beneath their eyes, both too self-destructive, too ready sacrifice anything to save the other. And then there was the man who wasn’t quite holding his gun properly and a child.

 

Lassiter looks over at her, asks if their ready. She nods, heartbeat thudding, thudding in her ears. _This is it, this is it, this is it._

 

He moves first, marching ahead and it’s admirable. She follows and Shawn stays close beside her, Michael and Dylan behind them; their mangled group.

 

Their heading for the back entrance, closer with every step.

 

Shawn touches her wrist, lightly, a brush, and whispers, almost too quietly, “Can you feel it?”

 

She remembers how people used to ask, wonder why Shawn and her were together. Weren’t they too different? Juliet knows the truth though that they are far too much like each other. Because they are dangerous and broken and adrenaline has always been their favorite drug.

 

She thinks that they are going to die here. Shawn is right; there is no denying that. Their death is inevitable.

 

Maybe not today, not now, but it will come sooner than it should have. People don’t survive the apocalypse, that’s the whole point.

 

The thing is death has always been an inevitability, long before all of this. The moment she decided to be a cop she knew she wouldn't die of old age peacefully in her bed. The dizzying rush of adrenaline has always been worth that price. 

 

So Juliet keeps marching forward, finger on the trigger.

 

When Lassiter throws open the door there are only a couple staggering around. Lassiter kills one and Juliet the other. The sound of the gunshots must attract them because suddenly several are pouring out of the hallways and conference rooms.

 

She is careful not to look to closely at any of them as she shoots.

 

It’s not been long enough for any of them to really decompose. They all look far too recognizable.

 

Lassiter and Shawn’s gun, hers too, are too loud, the sound reverberating through her bones, disorienting.

 

She breathes, loosens her shoulders, and counts with each shot.

 

1 headshot, breathe.

 

Chest shot, breathe. Headshot.

 

Headshot, breathe.

 

One, to their left, crawling, clawing, coming too close. She tries to pretend she doesn’t recognize the patterned clothing, Buzz, already dressed in his own clothing, preparing to leave the station for the night, to go home to his wife.

 

She doesn’t shoot.

 

She doesn’t shoot.

 

Ears ringing, breath hitching, body trembling. 

 

He’s nearly at her feet now.

 

Hands trembling, she shoots. She doesn’t realize until the body is sprawled motionless on the ground that she had had her eyes closed.

 

When she looks up Shawn is staring at the body too, standing a couple of feet away from her. He must sense her eyes on him because he abruptly looks up, making eye contact.

 

The look she sees on his face in that moment………….

 

He would rather be dead, down on the ground with Buzz.

 

Lassiter nudges her then, signals them forward, distracting her.

 

They have to step over their dead for this. She watches Michael nudge at one of them with his foot before stepping over. Got to be sure the dead are dead. It doesn’t keep the creepy feeling from crawling across her neck. She hunches her shoulders against it and fights the urge to look behind her.

 

No time, no time for looking back during the apocalypse.

 

A shot to her left. The three of them all turn to look at Michael. He’s shaking, his entire body, gun still pointed at the thing in the side hallway.

 

“I got it,” he gasped.

 

There’s no time for congratulations either. _And what would they be congratulating?_

 

They move forward still.

 

It’s too quiet. She didn’t anticipate that. War scenes, battle scenes, in the movies are loud, crashing, too may things happening all at once. Here, it is quiet. Her ears are still ringing from the guns. Around the corner, she can hear a clawing sound and a whine like a dog trying to escape its’ cage.

 

Don’t forget the corner of your eye.

 

She jumps when Shawn’s arm brushes against her.

 

“They’re all in the basement. The morgue. With the dead bodies,” Shawn whispers his sudden realization. The horror of what this means bleeds into their minds.

 

The door for the stairs to the basement is at the far end of the hallway. She can see it from here but it has never been further away.

 

They pass the chief’s office, shoot a rookie that used to bring them coffee, pass Lassiter’s desk, pass Juliet’s desk, shoot someone else, pass the foyer. At the bathrooms they stop. Juliet goes first and Shawn follows behind leaving Lassiter to rest against the wall outside.

 

With Juliet’s heart in her throat, she pushes open the door to the first stall. Empty.

 

The anxiety is a real, present thing causing her heart to beat so fast she’s gagging on it. Even the feeling of Shawn close behind her is suddenly too much, the silent puff of air on the back of her neck sends goosebumps across her skin.

 

Battle is one thing, war, a shoot-out but Juliet has never cared for the too quiet game of hide-and-seek.

 

She pushes the next two stalls open in quick succession. Nothing.

 

The men’s room only has one stall. Shawn checks it as if he knows the fear consuming her, sending tremors through her arms.

 

Back out in the hall, the others wait, wary. Shawn nods to Lassiter and confirms, “This floor is clear.”


	11. When You Remember This, Remember Us, Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is how it ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've also got a playlist for the fic up on 8tracks that you should listen to you. /thequietones/and-we-will-never-be-whole-again. YAY PLAYLIST!  
> Anyway, hope you like it.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been reviewing!
> 
> !!!Some goreishness mentioned!!!!

  
__

“We have not touched the stars,  
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back  
to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes,  
not from the absence of violence, but despite  
the abundance of it.” 

-Crush, Richard Siken 

Chapter 11: When You Remember This, Remember Us, Together

 

 

Lassiter’s side aches. The drugs have dulled the pain but it aches still. He wants to sleep, maybe forever.

 

He eases himself off the wall instead and asks, “The basement then?”

 

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

Lassiter wishes there were a way they could leave the boy up here. This is not something he should see. Even at the top of the landing, he can hear the sound of them down there, like a pack of wild dogs.

 

It’s not something he wants to see either and he’s been on the force for nearly 20 years now.

 

Behind him, Michael is talking to Shawn.

 

“What-What do they do? What’s going to be down there?”

 

“You haven’t seen one…kill?”

 

“No.”

 

Lassiter can feel Shawn’s shudder from here. An image of the last time he saw Gus alive dances across his memory. “It depends really. I’ve seen it both ways. Sometimes they gnaw a little, enough to infect the person with whatever this is, a parasite, infection. I don’t know. Other times they just tear the person apart, devour them until all that’s left is pieces……”

 

There’s a long silence as they creep down the stairs before Shawn speaks again, “That’s probably what we’re going to see down here since these were already dead in the morgue, just bodies. Total mutilation.”

 

Carlton swallows, thinking about Gus. They’re all thinking about Gus.

 

At the bottom of the stairs are a pair of doors. The type with no handle which just need a push to open, a small square window in each.

 

“Okay, plan. I don’t know how their sense of smell or anything is so I’m going to make this quick. I look through window and get an idea of how many were dealing with, then we maintain our position here, right at the doors. No stepping past until were sure they're dead. Dylan, stay back there; this is not something you ever need to see,” Lassiter explains quickly.

 

It’s the same game plan they used years back when entering an apartment of known drug addicts that were reportedly in a PCP haze. 

 

“Yeah, okay.”

 

He nods and heads for the window. It’s not actually as bad as he was expecting which is when he remembers that dead bodies don’t bleed.

The pieces though are everywhere; every one of those refrigerated cubbyholes has been wrenched open. A group of five is fighting over the mostly still intact remains inside one of them.

Somewhere behind them, closer to the door are a couple on the ground eating some organ. It’s the large intestine, he thinks, and looks away before he actually vomits. Another three are fighting over what looks the dismembered thigh of someone. The rest around six, maybe, seem content with their spoils and are alone in their meal.

 

“There are about fifteen but I can only see so much,” Lassiter says, face still pressed to the window.

 

“We ready then?” Shawn asks, gun held in his hands in perfect form.

 

“Yeah we are,” Lassiter says urgently, already pushing open the door, “They’re coming this way.”

 

“Shit!” Shawn gasps beside him. The thigh eaters are practically on top of them, hands reaching, blood on their faces, eyes unfocused. Their proximity makes for easy headshots.

 

Except, except Shawn is still gasping, a obvious tremble in his hands now, shots going a little wild. Carlton sees immediately what he’s shooting at, Woody. Lassiter shoots him through the head; doesn’t wait to watch as the body falls to their feet.

 

What it means is he takes his eyes off what’s in front of him. The hand lands on his arm hard, tugs, grip tight. Scrambling backwards Carlton curses trying to shoot at the body attached to the arm.

 

“Spencer!” Lassiter barks when Shawn enters the fray. He’s clubbing the thing on his arm with the butt of his gun.

 

The animal releases him then, launching itself at Shawn. It takes two shots for Carlton to kill it. When it pitches forward, dead, it collapses into Shawn; a testament to what a close call that was. Shawn stomps on its neck for good measure, avoiding Lassiter’s eyes.

 

“Why were you hitting it instead of shooting, dumbass?” Carlton asks harshly, nerves making him angry.

 

Shawn grins cheekily at him. The only thing to remind him that the grin is fake is the way Shawn’s gaze skitters away instead of meeting Carlton’s stare head-on. “Didn’t think you’d want to get hit by friendly fire again,” he says. 

 

“Guys! Problem,” Juliet hisses.

 

Lassiter looks quickly up at Juliet, still standing right beside them, just inside the door. She’s standing frigidly still, gun and gaze straight ahead. Not a foot away from them, also oddly still, are the last six monsters.

 

Shawn speaks quietly, raising his gun slowly at the group. “I think they’re capable of learning. At least as much as any other animal is.”

 

He’s right. The way the things are standing there, watching, gathered in semi-circle is nearly strategic. They’re like sharks circling their prey, a snake waiting to strike, a cat ready to pounce.

 

“I’m not waiting for them to make the first move,” Lassiter whispers, “Are we ready?”

 

They don’t get to answer. Behind them, up the stairs, is the telltale sound of a door opening and closing then the stumbling of heavy footsteps.

 

Carlton does not want to die like this. Here they are trapped between the proverbial rock and hard place.

 

From the sounds he’d guess there are at least two coming down the stairs now.

 

Shawn whispers, “I’ll take care of those.”

 

Out of his peripheral vision, not for a moment taking his eyes from the six zombies still in front of them, Carlton can see Shawn slowly turning and backing away to put Michael and Dylan between them, protected on each side. Lassiter does not begrudge Shawn having to turn his back.

 

“O’Hara?” Carlton asks.

 

“Ready.”

 

Juliet shoots first.

 

Carlton shoots as well.

 

Two down.

 

His ears are ringing, the already too loud gunshots reverberate against the walls of the stairwell. He takes a breath in and releases as he squeezes the trigger. He tries to stay calm and shoot with precision.

 

One of them on the far end separates from the pack, coming at him from the side. He turns slightly keeping tabs on the others and shoots. Over the roaring in his ears, he doesn’t hear the click of his gun telling him he’s out of ammo. The moment it takes for him to realize this is enough time for another one of the monsters to get his hands on Lassiter.

 

“Michael! Give me your gun!” He kicks at it with his left leg, ignoring the pain that flares in his side at this action. His hand reaches out blindly behind him. The moment he feels the gun touch his hand he presses it against the creature’s head and shoots.

 

Carlton turns to his right where he watches Juliet shoot the last one in the shoulder then the head. It drops to the ground unceremoniously. Lassiter steps forward cautiously and peers into the morgue to be sure they really are all dead.

 

Empty. Lassiter turns back, letting Juliet know they’re good.

 

He can see Shawn now at the bottom of the stairwell, two dead zombies at his feet. He has hold of Dylan’s baseball bat, which he’s using to brain one of the creatures furiously.

 

Lassiter still can’t really hear anything properly but he’s aware somehow that Shawn, still beating at the zombie, now truly dead, is making a noise. Keening.

 

Juliet meets his gaze briefly and nods. Carlton doesn’t actually know what that means but he returns the gesture with a sharp nod of his own head. 

 

He watches her grab Shawn’s arms, stilling him forcibly. He can tell by the movement of her lips that she’s saying the same thing over and over to him. He pretends not to know what she’s saying.

 

He turns away from the couple when Shawn drops the bat with a clatter throwing his arms instead around Juliet.

 

Behind him, Michael and Dylan are in a similar position. Michael holding his small son on his hip, the boy’s face pressed into his father’s chest. Shaking, crying soundless tears. Michael is running a soothing hand up and down the boy’s back.

 

The sudden powerful ache of loneliness hits Lassiter like a train. Starting in his gut then gurgling in his throat, he fears for a moment it’s going to bring him to his knees. He wants Marlowe in his arms. Needs her. Desperately. 

 

He needs someone. Otherwise this, all of this, is just too pointless.

 

The hand suddenly gripping his arm makes him jump out of his thoughts. Spencer. The thought that the man really is psychic darts through his mind even though he knows for a fact it’s not true.

 

Shawn’s eyes are red-rimmed still dripping with tears. There’s a smear of blood on his forehead and in his hair. He’s struck suddenly by how young Shawn looks in that moment. Juliet too. She looks kind and gentle, even now, smiling wobbly at him, blood on her hands.

 

He had known, of course, that he cared about both of them before this, before everything. But not like this. They are both his family now, his mind whispers.

 

Juliet’s hand takes his pulling him towards her and Spencer, into a bizarre three-person hug. He surreptitiously rubs his face on the shoulder of her shirt. She doesn’t comment, just squeezes him closer.

 

Carlton breathes in a shudder then relaxes tugging both of them closer. He asks quietly, “You’re both okay?”

 

What years working together didn’t do, a couple of days of apocalypse have.


	12. Let Me Close My Eyes, I'm Going to Sleep Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is how it ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've also got a playlist for the fic up on 8tracks that you should listen to. /thequietones/and-we-will-never-be-whole-again. YAY PLAYLIST!  
> Anyway, hope you like it.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been reviewing!

_I have a rendezvous with Death_

_When Spring brings back blue days and fair._

_It may be he shall take my hand_

_And lead me into his dark land_

_And close my eyes and quench my breath—_

_It may be I shall pass him still._

-Alan Seeger 

Chapter 12: Let Me Close My Eyes, I'm Going to Sleep Forever 

 

Upstairs again, they do another thorough sweep. The offices, interrogation rooms, everywhere.

 

Dylan and Shawn tug a few of the cots, that were kept in one room for anyone that needed a quick nap, into the armory. The armory behind a bullet-proof, keycode locked door was agreed to be the best place to set up for sleeping.

Lassiter roams the building, making sure the few, small windows are secure. Michael, Shawn, and Juliet barricade the front doors with desks. The station is built to keep the unwanted out though so it doesn’t require much work to make them more safe than they’ve been in days.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

 

Dylan’s sitting on one the cots, eyes blinking heavily, fighting sleep, when Shawn returns to the armory. The others are still out in the station.

Shawn crosses the room and sits beside the boy before his legs collapse beneath him. He truly can’t believe they’re all alive.

 

It feels like a lie.

 

“Go ahead. Go to sleep. Your dad’ll be here in a minute,” Shawn urges softly.

 

Fingers clumsy with exhaustion, Dylan signs, “Thank you. Goodnight.”

 

He lays down in a small ball and is breathing deeply in no time at all. Shawn watches him hazily, everything out of focus, the fallout of all his panic, adrenaline, and sleep deprivation finally hitting him.

 

That’s when he sees it, of course. A thin, barely there cut across Dylan’s arm, a small dot of blood beading up from it. Heart pounding, stomach clenched, Shawn desperately wants to have never seen it.

 

Taking a breath, he leans forward to look closely at the cut.

 

Really, it could have come from anywhere. It didn’t have to have come from one of the dead. But Shawn, Shawn and his stupid memory, can see now what he had just barely noticed then. They’re at the bottom of the stairs, Shawn’s trying to shoot one of the two dead but it’s flailing fast, reaching, reaching for them, grabs at Dylan who screams and recoils even further behind Shawn.

 

That has to be it.

 

It’s not deep at all though. Just a scratch. And Shawn has no idea how much it would take to become infected. Doesn't know what the infection is, doesn't know anything. And from what Juliet and Lassiter have told him about the outbreak in the station he knows it happens fast.

 

Plus if it was one of the dead wouldn’t it have to be a bite, fluids exchanged, rather than a scratch of fingernails. Shawn doesn’t know which zombie apocalypse book they’re living in.

 

Conclusion, everything’s fine. No sense in telling anyone.

 

Shawn leans back against the wall, exhausted, all over again. He arranges Dylan’s feet across his lap and decides to rest his eyes for a moment.

 

Even if something does happen it’s Shawn right here with Dylan. Lassiter and Juliet will be safe. They’ll still have time to take action.


	13. Your Mind Is a Terrible and Beautiful Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is how it ends...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've also got a playlist for the fic up on 8tracks that you should listen to. /thequietones/and-we-will-never-be-whole-again. YAY PLAYLIST!  
> Anyway, hope you like it. Thanks for the kudos, comments, and bookmarks!

_“There are many who don't wish to sleep for fear of nightmares. Sadly, there are many who don't wish to wake for the same fear.”_

-Richelle Goodrich, Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher 

When they all return to the armory, Shawn and Dylan are sitting up on one of the cots, leaning against a wall, fast asleep.

 

Juliet sighs in relief. “Thank god.” 

 

“What?” Michael asks, confused.

 

“Spencer hasn’t really slept since this all happened,” Lassiter explains quietly.

 

Juliet is relieved he doesn’t reveal anything beyond that. Shawn, for all that he talks a lot, rarely reveals anything truly meaningful or personal. The idea of someone they hardly know knowing anything about Shawn’s anxieties and trouble sleeping makes Juliet uncomfortable. Lassiter hardly knows the extent of it himself.

 

She glances at Michael who is clearly moments from passing out himself.

 

“Go ahead. Sleep. I’m assuming you haven’t either since this started.”

 

Michael nods. “Thank you.” Trudging forward, he stops at one of the cots. “Really. We were going to die out there. I can’t-just thank you.”

 

Both her and Lassiter nod in unison; what can you say in response?

 

“Carlton, you too. I’ll take the first watch. Wake you up in five hours, ok,” she keeps her voice deliberately firm so he knows it’s in no way a question but an order.

 

To her relief and surprise Carlton only nods, patting her shoulder as he walks past her.

 

Juliet stands there for a moment staring out the window at the empty hallway that used to be full of people. She thinks about tomorrow but not about yesterday or the day before that.

 

Just over three hours later, she hears a whimper she knows too well. A shifting, the creak of the cot, another whimper. It will soon be thrashing, maybe a scream.

 

Getting up quickly from the floor before he can wake anyone, Juliet kneels down in front of Shawn. Running her fingers through his hair, she urges, “Shawn. Shawn, wake up. Come on. Easy, easy. Shawn.”

 

When his eyes suddenly fly open, it surprises her, as it always does. He’s murmuring something to himself, too fast, too quiet for her to understand. She has an idea from previous experience what it is though.

 

“It’s a Wednesday, May of 2015. We’re at the Station because of the-the disease, Lassiter, Michael, and Dylan are here.”

 

Shawn relaxes impossibly, head dropping back down, eyes fluttering. She’s not even sure if he really understands what she just said but as long as he’s going back to sleep.

 

“Never woke up and realized the nightmare was better,” he mumbles suddenly.

 

She draws in a quick, startled breath and tries to figure out what to say but when she lifts her gaze to actually look at him his eyes are shut, face relaxed, breathing even. Asleep. He’s not faking. But she probably wouldn’t know the difference.

 

She sits and stares hard at his face, blinks back a tear and the overwhelming desire to sob. There’s a gnawing, desperate voice in her head urging her to wake him back up, tell him she loves him.

 

It’s silly though; it’s not as if he doesn’t know.

 

After another moment, staring at his slack, sleeping face, she stands up heading back to her post. She still has two hours until Lassiter’s watch, two hours until she finds out what’s waiting in her own subconscious.

 

“He asleep?”

 

Juliet jumps at the sudden intrusion of her silence. While she wills her heart to calm down, she glances back at Shawn then over at Lassiter, who’s sitting up on his cot, staring back at her in the darkness.

 

She sits down beside him with a sigh. “Yeah, he is.”

 

“That happen a lot?” he asks with a lazy jerk of his head over at Shawn.

 

Juliet stiffens, suddenly stuck six days ago in memories of Lassiter glaring, growling at Shawn desperate to knock him down several pegs.

 

Carlton, for his part, is not head detective for no reason. He’s shaking his head, laying a tentative hand on her shoulder, whispering, “O’Hara- Juliet, that’s not why I’m asking and you know it. Even then I wouldn’t have, wouldn’t have gone for the jugular.”

 

“Sorry. I know that.”

 

“So, that,” jerking his head again at Shawn, “didn’t look like a recent, post-dead people walking development?”

 

Juliet grits her teeth, still not comfortable with this. In all the years of dating Shawn, she and him had talked about the nightmares only once and even then it had been a weird, metaphorical conversation. It was Gus who she had gone to when she realized it wasn’t just a one-night thing but a life-long attack on his subconscious.

 

_God, she misses him._ Misses who he was for Shawn. Misses who he was to her. Misses his perfect brand of hilarity and seriousness. 

 

Lassiter is still sitting there, watching her. He huffs, abruptly frustrated with her indecision.

 

“If it helps you, I’m not asking out of whatever sentiment you’re imagining. It’s important to all our safety that I know how much we can trust him to be rational and sane. It’s important that I know how careful we need to be to keep him from doing something rash,” Lassiter says, voice just south of harsh.

 

Juliet believes that only so much. It’s sentiment too, she knows. It’s hard not to, in regards to Shawn. He grows on people, even without their consent.

 

“You know what he is, right?” she finally asks.

 

“Yes.” He answers calmly like the matter of Shawn’s true abilities, like his claim of psychic powers, haven’t been a widely debated topic throughout the precinct since he entered their lives.

 

“I thought you did.”

 

“A few years ago I met his mother, you know, when she did the psych evaluations. She told me she had eidetic tonal memory. The rest of it clicked after that, his memory, and he’s mentioned himself that his father trained him to be a detective. Hyper observant,” Lassiter explains quietly.

 

Juliet doesn’t ask why he never told anyone, tried to discredit Shawn. She suspects it’s rather like her reasons.

 

She used to fear a day when everything was revealed and every last case that Shawn worked on was brought into question. Every person arrested, released on technicalities. Now she mostly fears what would happen to Shawn himself if he were caught. Although she supposes that’s all moot now.

 

“What does this have to do with his nightma-Oh.” Lassiter stops. He’s staring back at Shawn now, Juliet wants to say he looks horrified. She knows he’s realized what’s going on.

 

“He remembers everything. Every insignificant thing. If you ask him about his fifteenth case, he can recall everything about it, the names, faces, addresses, smells, the entire layout of the crime scene, every conversation word-for-word,” Juliet says quietly.

 

Juliet pauses, waits.

 

“His nightmares are all of it, the things he doesn’t forget. Sometimes, at night, he gets confused, lost, forgets where he is, when he is.”

 

She feels selfishly relieved. It is not her story to tell but the weight of it off her shoulders is incredible. It will be much easier to share the knowledge.

 

Lassiter sighs beside her. She knows he’s thinking about every crime scene they’ve been to, all those bodies. Then he’ll remember that a couple of days ago Shawn watched his best friend, his brother, be torn apart, _eaten alive_. And he can’t forget it.

"What are we going to do, Carlton?"


	14. If You Can't Live For Yourself, You Can Live For Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is how it ends....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've also got a playlist for the fic up on 8tracks that you should listen to. /thequietones/and-we-will-never-be-whole-again. YAY PLAYLIST!  
> Anyway, hope you like it. Thanks for kudos, comments, and bookmarks!

  
_"It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace."_

-Chuck Palahniuk, Diary 

Chapter 14: If You Can't Live For Yourself, You Can Live For Us

When Shawn wakes up, he wishes he hadn't.

The feeling of crushing disappointment is accompanied by a knot in his stomach that causes his eyes to sting and his throat to close. For a moment, he thinks he's going to gag.

He squeezes his eyes shut and can't stop himself from praying to God that this will all go away.

Waking out of a good dream, out of any dream that's better than reality, to find that none of it is real is the worst feeling of all.

It's still dark.

They're still locked in the precinct's armory.

Gus is still dead. Gus. 

He can hear the low murmur of voices though that tell him Lassiter and Juliet are awake.

He is not alone.

He sits up, runs a hand through his hair. Dylan is beside him slumped in the opposite direction, still asleep. That, at least, is a blessing.

Michael is snoring softly on the cot nearest them. Juliet and Lassiter are sitting just outside the now open door, their backs to him.

Stretching, he stands up, ignores the way his shirt clings to his back, sticky with sweat, and wanders over to Juliet and Carlton.

"I could have taken a shift," Shawn whispers, dropping neatly next to them.

Lassiter snorts. "We were fine. We both got around five hours. We know how to pace ourselves."

Shawn tenses, preparing a snarky retort that deflates when Juliet lays a hand on his thigh. In another world that would be call for serious teasing about him being whipped.

He can almost hear Gus' voice.

This is the new world though.

"I can take the second shift tonight," Shawn compromises, daring either of them to disagree.

Lassiter grumbles something that sounds like an assent.

Dawn comes slowly, as a curtain of sunlight creeping across the station. It's silent, among them and outside too. The absence of the sound of cars and people, that nobody ever noticed before, is heavy. It makes Shawn antsy.

It should have been Gus here. Not him.

Shawn speaks slowly, haltingly, keeping his voice even, "Last night, Dylan fell asleep before me and I noticed he was bleeding."

"What?!"

Lassiter is standing in one smooth motion, hand on his gun. Juliet stares at him, horrified.

"See, now this is why I didn't say anything when I saw it. I-"

"Spencer!" Lassiter growls.

"It's not a bite. Just listen! It's a small scratch on his arm. Hardly even skin deep. I'm surprised it bled at all. I didn't even know what it came from. I didn't think any of the dead had touched him but one did try to grab at him in the stairwell so that could be it. There was no reason to panic everyone. I figured I'd stay close to him, just in case."

"Shawn, you slept beside him! What if he had been infected? He could have attacked you before you even knew what had happened. You idiot!" Juliet hisses, hands on his shoulders shaking him, furious, wild, terrified.

"I knew someone would be up keeping watch so if something happened it could have been taken care of. It was a safe risk."

"Not before he had attacked you! Do you hear yourself, Shawn? Safe risk? You'd be dead! Dead! Gone!" Juliet stands, like she can't bear to be near him.

"Is that what you want Spencer? One of us having to shoot you, having to figure out what to do with your body. Us having to continue without you," Lassiter asks, frightfully calm.

That's not what he wanted. Shawn just wants to close his eyes and let this all disappear. He wants to be selfish, doesn't want to care about how they would feel in his absence. Shawn looks at them. They are both staring at him like is a ticking time bomb, like he is something to be feared. Something that would hurt the both of them, irreparably. 

He swallows, throat clicking audibly.

"I'm sorry." Earnest. 

"Good," Lassiter replies firmly, sitting back down. "Then remember you're not the only one here, struggling."

Shawn keeps quiet. There is nothing really to say, other than to apologize again and that feels like too much of an admittance of what he had done.

Juliet's hand is suddenly in his hair, fingers running through it a bit roughly. She lets go and then sits back down, like Lassiter, on the other side of him.

"I'm still mad at you," she says softly.

A few moments of silence pass.

Juliet grabs his chin, forcing him to make eye contact with her. "You don't make decisions anymore without us. It doesn't matter how insignificant it is. You check with us first. Got it?"

"Yeah," Shawn answers, looking away the moment she lets go. This is not the conversation he had wanted or expected.

"I say we keep a close eye on him for another day, just in case. But I'm pretty sure if he was infected something should have already happened. And we don't tell his dad or mention it to him," Juliet explains reasonably, changing the topic.

"Sounds good," Lassiter agrees.

They fall back into silence. No one willing to divulge anything further about their fears.

The morning lingers on. Birds chirp. Shawn thinks about what could have happened. Juliet is a warm weight beside him. Time is a different thing here. The watch on his wrist, it isn't his-he had never needed or wanted a watch before-he had found it in someone's desk, says it's 8:16 and the last he checked it was 8:05. Of course, that short span of minutes felt like hours.

At some point, sometime later, Dylan silently settles beside Juliet, tucking his legs beneath him. Shawn watches the boy for a moment to see if he has anything to say. Immediately Juliet surreptitiously begins looking at his arm, searching for the wound as if she's certain it's going to be worse than he claimed.

It's a barely raised mark that hardly appears to have broken the skin, all but invisible on the kid's dark skin. No longer even bleeding. Dylan, for all appearances, hasn't even realized he was scratched. Shawn watches Juliet's tensed body relax, her shoulders falling down to a normal resting position.

Lassiter, who can't see from where he's sitting, looks to Juliet. Juliet leans forward, ignoring Shawn, to nod her head at Lassiter. His shoulders don't relax but Shawn doesn't think he's ever seen Lassiter anything but tense.

Shawn knows that just because the scratch appears to be nothing won't change the principle of what he did in either Lassiter or Juliet's eyes. Which begs the question of why he even bothered to tell them.

He believes his mother would have said that it was call for help, letting them know he was in trouble.

Shawn thinks that he said it because he still has no brain-to-mouth filter.

Dylan's stomach growls louder than a freight train. When Shawn, startled, looks over at him, he shrugs sheepishly and mouths the word 'sorry' like he's too lazy to sign it.

"All the food's out in the car still. We should bring it all in before we have a problem…" Lassiter trails off.

Shawn remembers how many there were when they drove through the city, whole crowds of the dead standing, walking, feasting.

He thinks he must have a look on his face, terror, despair-take your pick-, or he tensed his body just so because suddenly Juliet's warm hand is on his. Her fingers tangling with his, gentle squeeze.

He is not alone.

Anchored.

Shawn returns the squeeze and says "I guess we should wake Michael then. We need him to check Lassiter's stitches before we get started."

Lassiter makes the expected grumble but doesn't argue.

"We need to do something with the bodies too," Juliet adds, standing up with Shawn, "We can't just drag them out and leave them. It will attract things."

God, the bodies. The bodies of all those people they knew.

The mornings are hard.


	15. The Future is Just Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've also got a playlist for the fic up on 8tracks that you should listen to. /thequietones/and-we-will-never-be-whole-again. YAY PLAYLIST!  
>  Anyway, hope you like it.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been reviewing!

  
_“Apocalypse is a frame of mind." [Nicodemus] said then. "A belief. A surrender to inevitability. It is a despair for the future. It is the death of hope.”_

-Jim Butcher, Death Masks 

Chapter 15: The Future is Just Tomorrow

 

“You pulled a couple here-last night I’m assuming-but it didn’t start bleeding so it’s probably fine. Otherwise you seem to be keeping it clean, so it looks good. It’ll probably be another couple of weeks before we can even think about pulling out the rest of the stitches though,” Michael explains, prodding at Lassiter’s abdomen. 

“So we’re good to unpack the car now?” Juliet asks in lieu of anything else. The force of relief that Lassiter’s really going to be okay surprising her. 

“Yeah. Just let me wrap it first,” Michael agrees, looking up at her before digging through the first aid kit.

“Thanks,” Lassiter grits out. 

“Not a problem. I’ll owe you three for the rest of my probably short life,” Michael jokes, winding gauze around Lassiter. It’s not funny. 

Juliet straightens. It might be denial, probably is, but she can’t believe this will all end like that. “We don’t know that. The military’s probably cleaning things up now and CDC’s on its way to figuring out what this is.”

“Do-do you know that?” Michael asks, his tone is weird as if he’s trying to ask something else entirely. 

“I-No. I mean-” Juliet stops, meeting Michael’s eyes. He’s stopped wrapping Lassiter, holding himself still, staring at her hard. 

Finally he goes back to Lassiter’s wound and begins speaking quietly. “It’d been driving me crazy since you picked us up. I recognized him from somewhere-Shawn, I mean,” Michael glances out into the hallway, where Shawn and Dylan are looking through everyone’s desks, before continuing. “I finally realized it this morning. I’ve seen him several times in the local newspaper. He’s the supposed psychic that works with your department.”

“Yeah, he is.” Juliet refuses to say anything else. She’s not sure why she said, implied, Shawn was a detective when they first met. Be that it was easier or she was afraid of what would happen if anyone tried to ask Shawn if he saw this coming, if he knew what was going to happen to them. 

“Well is he, you know?” Michael asks. Something crosses his face, he confesses, “My wife believed in that sort of thing no matter how many times I scoffed.”

Juliet sighs. She doesn’t know how to answer. 

“In the eight years he worked with us, he helped solve nearly two hundred cases. That’s all that I really care about. No way to really prove he’s not what he says he is,” Lassiter explains.

Eight years is a long time. Juliet tries to remember when genuine dislike turned into annoyance, respect, and friendship. 

Michael finishes the wrapping, stepping back, rubbing his hands together. 

“Don’t ask him what’s going to happen. He doesn’t know,” Juliet says, before he can ask, so he doesn’t have to ask. 

He nods like he understands but Juliet knows he doesn’t, can’t. There’s eight years of history here. 

\-------------------------------------------------

They are lucky. 

Which is a joke really. But they are. 

There are no dead out in the back parking lot. Not when they take their first tentative steps out the door with guns held tight, like the new, grown-up version of a security blanket. Not in the near hour it takes to get everything inside.

It’s disturbingly anticlimactic. Like in the movies when the music speeds up and you just know something’s about to happen so you sit forward in your seat and watch every shadow in the scene attentively. But nothing happens. 

The sun shines brightly, a bird chirps, the sky is an endless clear blue. This is not the apocalypse he imagined. 

Shawn wonders how it is everywhere else. The big cities especially, New York City or Atlanta. 

How it is for everyone else. 

Before they stack all the food away in one of the offices they take a break to eat. The thinnest smear of peanut butter between two slices of bread-perishables first. 

Together they sit in a circle on the floor of the precinct eating their sandwiches, silent. 

Shawn thinks they’re doing pretty good. 

When he finishes his sandwich, he teaches Michael a couple more basic signs. Smiles back when both son and father give blinding grins of appreciation. 

Shawn thinks they’re doing pretty good. 

Juliet kisses him, soft and then forcefully with a hand on his neck. Tells him she loves him. 

Shawn thinks they’re doing pretty good. 

Shawn thinks they’re all going to die. Bloody and desperate, screaming for each other as they are torn to pieces. 

Sometimes he thinks that the sooner it happens, the inevitable, the sooner he can stop worrying about it. 

He already feels dead anyway.


	16. The Things We Didn't Say in the Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 've also got a playlist for the fic up on 8tracks that you should listen to. /thequietones/and-we-will-never-be-whole-again. YAY PLAYLIST!  
> Anyway, hope you like it. Thanks to everyone who has been reading!

_“I hadn't understood funeral pyres before, but now I do. It's ghastly to burn someone you love but watching the smoke going into the sky, I think that's rather beautiful now. And I wish Tess could be up in the sky. Somewhere with color and light and air.”  
-Rosamund Lupton, Sister_

Chapter 16: The Things We Didn't Say in the Aftermath 

 

They eat their sandwiches and try to ignore the dead bodies still scattered throughout the precinct. Juliet knows they need to do something about them, now, today; but she also knows having to drag the dead, some mutilated, others still looking frightfully like the people she once knew, bodies of her coworkers out of here will irreparably damage her. She knows what that scene in the movie, book, leads to; she will be changed, hardened, broken. 

And that’s her. God only knows what it will do to Carlton and Shawn. 

“We need to do something about the bodies,” she says, the words spilling from her mouth unbidden.

Neither Shawn nor Carlton will say anything, both refusing eye contact. 

“And do what with them?” Michael asks, oblivious.

“We’re going to have to burn them,” Carlton says then, resigned. 

We’re going to have the smell the stench of burning flesh, accidentally inhale the ashes of our friends.

\------------------------------------------------------

Shawn does not look at the faces or clothes, tries to distract himself, even sings a song in his head he doesn’t know the name of. It doesn’t matter; his mind still picks up every little thing. This is the gift his father gave him. Count the hats, Shawn. How many hats, Shawn? Close your eyes, Shawn. Are you watching, Shawn? Do you remember, Shawn? Focus, Shawn. Don’t miss anything, Shawn. 

He wants to break something, needs to before he breaks himself instead.  
They leave Dylan just inside the back door of the precinct as a lookout, keeping him helpful but still sparing him this horror. 

There will be other horrors, more horrors, coming in the months that follow that they will not be able to protect him from. 

Michael offers to collect the body parts, the pieces, in the basement, says he’s a doctor, he’s accustomed to anatomy and organs. Shawn thinks he still feels indebted to them. 

Shawn has to stop once when he and Juliet are carrying one of the bodies, he knows her name but can’t, can’t bear to think it, up the stairs. He breathes through his mouth, heavy and slow. Fights off the panic that will not ebb. 

They work quick, no one sure how long it will take for the things to be attracted. First piling them all just inside the door then taking them out into the parking lot. It still takes too long. They carry out piles of newspapers and other paper as well to help the fire. 

Juliet watches him careful and close as if by worrying about him, she can ignore what this is doing to her. A couple of times it looks like she might say something but she never does. 

Now they’re standing there with this pile of dead people, not just people-coworkers, friends, family, in front of them. Gasoline and a lighter ready. Trust a police station to have everything you would need in the event of an apocalypse. 

When the pile is complete, Shawn still refusing to really look, Michael pats Lassiter on the shoulder and turns away, leaving them there, understanding something none of the three could verbalize.

They all turn as one to watch him walk back inside. At the door, he says something to Dylan, ushering him inside before shutting the door. 

Shawn reaches over and grabs Juliet’s hand in his finally. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t think there are words for this. He squeezes her hand though and starts breathing again when she squeezes back. 

Carlton bumps shoulders with him before stepping away with the gas can. He circles the pile slowly, splashing only the barest amount on the pile since they’ll no doubt need the rest for the car later. When he finishes, he comes back to stand next to them. Shawn’s holding the lighter. He lets go of Juliet’s hand and picks up the few balls of newspaper at his feet. He lights them each tossing them in various places. 

Shawn has a sudden, random memory of Lord of the Rings-the part where Denethor driven insane by the war and loss chooses to die by burning himself alive on a funeral pyre. Shawn thankfully has no desire to burn. 

He waits for it to catch, for the flames to respond before moving back to the safety of Lassiter and Juliet on either side of him. 

Lassiter’s hand drops onto his shoulder and squeezes once drawing Shawn’s gaze from the fire for the briefest moment. Lassiter opens his mouth to ask something but then he just shakes his head, removes his hand from Shawn’s shoulder. He stays close though. 

Maybe they should have said something, treated it as some sort of macabre memorial, commemorated these people and their lives. 

Buzz.

The chief- Karen.

Woody.

All those people. 

The ones that are not here, burning, but are dead and gone nonetheless. 

Gus. 

Marlowe.

Henry.

Too many more.

They don’t say anything though; just stand there in the approaching darkness, staring into the fire, telling themselves the tears are from the smoke. 

For all the things these three are able to handle, face down, their emotions have never been one of those. 

When it’s all well and truly up in flames, has been for several minutes, they head back inside together, shoulder’s brushing.


	17. When The Adrenaline Fades Don't Forget to Keep Breathing

_

“Does anything in nature despair except man? An animal with a foot caught in a trap does not seem to despair. It is too busy trying to survive. It is all closed in, to a kind of still, intense waiting. Is this a key? Keep busy with survival. Imitate the trees. Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember that nothing stays the same for long, not even pain, psychic pain. Sit it out. Let it all pass. Let it go.”

_

-May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude 

 

 

 

Chapter 17: When The Adrenaline Fades Don't Forget to Keep Breathing

 

That night, after another peanut butter sandwich, Lassiter takes the first shift. He watches Michael drop onto one of the cots and completely pass out. His son follows suit quickly.

 

Juliet and Shawn curl together on the last cot, impossibly close, limbs entangled, clinging to each other. Lassiter can hear the soft mumble of their whispering but no actual words. He turns away to stare out into the hallway.

 

Wonders what it would be like if Marlowe were here with him. If, if, if, if….

 

It starts raining sometime into the second hour.

 

He doesn’t realize it until the hallway flashes white for the briefest of seconds, illuminating everything. And then he can hear it pounding down against the doors and windows.

 

He breathes in and holds it for a moment before releasing the air in a hiss.

 

It’s funny the way rain can have different effects. It calms, soothes, depresses, frightens.

 

He wakes Shawn two hours later for his shift. Shawn carefully unravels himself from Juliet then nods at Lassiter as he drags past him to sit by the gate.

 

Just as Carlton starts to move towards the third cot, Michael and Dylan sharing, Juliet’s hand darts out a grips his wrist. She tugs him back towards the cot.

 

“It’s cold. Sleep here.” She demands. It’s not cold, not in a physical sense at least. 

 

“Just, come on,” Juliet mumbles, eyes squinting at him now, hand lazily beckoning him forward.

 

He makes the expected, required grumbles as he kicks his shoes off, climbs on, lets Juliet drape herself half on top of him.

 

He’s asleep before he even realizes it. He doesn’t wake either when hours later Juliet and Shawn switch places. Shawn dropping onto the cot without hesitation, wrapping around him just as Juliet had.

 

He does wake however some indeterminate time later when Shawn suddenly jerks threatening to topple both of them to the ground. He’s mumbling something fast, words running together, a glazed, lost look about him.

 

It sends goosebumps up Carlton’s arms. He hopes what he’s thinking isn’t evident all over his face.

 

Carlton shakes Shawn roughly by the shoulders, and whispers deliberately, “Hey Spencer, it’s 2015, Thursday, …5:00 in the morning. We’re at the SBPD after the outbreak.”

 

He can feel Juliet’s eyes on them from the door, wondering if she needs to intervene.

 

“At SBPD after the outbreak,” Shawn mumbles before dropping back onto the cot like all his wires have been cut. He mumbles something else that sounds like a math equation before seemingly passing out again.

 

Lassiter knows he’s still awake though. With their close proximity it’d be impossible not to feel the too fast beat of Shawn’s heart.

 

He lays awake too and wonders how long they can sustain this.

\-----------------------------------------

 

Days pass. Thursday.

 

Friday.

 

The water abruptly cuts off that morning which at least lasted longer than the electricity that cut off hours before Gus was killed. They have water bottles and several buckets full of water painstakingly collected from one of the sinks in the station’s bathroom. They all had used the decontamination shower in the morgue the day before, at least.

 

Saturday.

 

Sunday.

 

Lassiter thinks he will vomit if he has to eat one more peanut butter sandwich. He thinks this bread can only last so much longer.

 

Monday.

 

Lassiter eats three peanut butter sandwiches over the course of the day.

 

Tuesday.

 

Nothing happens. Nothing at all.

 

The tension, the sense that something horrible is just around the corner, lurking in the shadows, never leaves though.

 

\------------------------------

Whoever said time heals all wounds was a liar.

 

Shawn gets progressively worse as the days continue to pass. His hands shake almost uncontrollably, tremors running through his body. He’s jumpy, wild like an animal.

 

This is a man cornered and trapped, stuck in a world that has never been enough for him. And now its narrowed down to these four walls.

 

Juliet and Carlton worry that one day they will wake up and he will have disappeared.

 

When he’s teaching Michael and Dylan he’s at his best, focused, patient in a way he never was before. He searches through the entire station for things to do, reads. Finds a German textbook and dictionary on Friday in someone’s desk. He’s all but fluent by Monday.

 

He starts teaching Dylan other stuff too. Picks up where school left off for him. Biology, Spanish, math.

 

He spends a lot of time with Dylan. The two speaking in too fast hand movements in a world of their own.

 

There are more nightmares too; nightmares that leave Shawn gasping for air like he’s drowning in an invisible ocean.

 

He does not fall back asleep after these.

 

Neither Juliet nor Carlton know what to do, what should be said.

 

Separately, they both think that Gus would’ve known.

 

As one, they acknowledge that this cannot continue.


	18. Sometimes Courage is Just Getting Out of the Bed

__

_“This is no time for ease and comfort. It is time to dare and endure.”_

-Winston Churchill

 

Juliet has let each day slip past; her thoughts consumed with the knowledge that they should, need to, are supposed to be doing something to save the rest of the survivors.

 

Selfishness and cowardice win every time she opens her mouth to make a suggestion though. They’re safe right now and that is such an overwhelming relief. She knows, of course, that the longer they wait to do anything the lower the chances are of finding anyone alive. The trade-off is that the longer they stay hunkered down in a relatively safe place-nowhere is truly safe anymore-the longer they survive.

 

And she can’t lose anyone else, not right now. Gus’ absence feels acute, a stabbing wound she feels in every moment of silence.

 

“Jules! Jules!” Juliet jumps, skin crawling with the sudden scare out of her thoughts.

 

Shawn is standing in front of her, staring, accessing. Of course, even a self-absorbed, depressed Shawn is still more observant then the average person. She wonders sometimes what he sees when he’s looking at her. 

 

“Just thinking,” she answers because it’s the truth. She picks the plastic knife back up and returns to spreading peanut butter over the marshmallow white bread.

 

“About what?” And that’s not fair. It feels as if he’s cornering her now when at his request she’s left him to himself the past week and half. 

 

“About how I’m going to lose my mind if we don’t stop eating peanut butter sandwiches soon,” Juliet says, flippantly. 

 

“Well,” Shawn tips his head, “we can’t have that. We can’t both lose our minds.”

 

Juliet, against her own will, lets a surprised, wet, choked sob of laughter out.

 

“Shawn.”

 

“Hey, hey, hey.” He’s moving forward, slow, unsure of his welcome. His arms wrap tight around, squeezing just a little, hand petting her head.

 

“I’m so sorry, Jules. I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I’m sorry I’ve scared you, made you worried. It won’t happen again, I promise. I love you so much.” He whispers the words into her ear, each one enunciated to press the earnestness home. 

 

He goes to step back from her, perhaps to check how his words were received, maybe to kiss her. Juliet doesn’t let him move, tightening her hold on him.

 

When tomorrow is such a fragile concept, forgiveness comes easy. A lot of things become much easier.

 

“Just stay for a minute.”

 

“Always if I could.”

 

“Don’t scare me again. I can’t be worried that you’re going to hurt yourself,” she orders, begs, requests, prays. Juliet is not stupid, never has been, she knows that it’s not all fixed now, knows Shawn won’t suddenly snap back to jokes and waving his arms about like a one man circus.

 

He’s taking a step back from the ledge. He’s taking his finger off the trigger. He’s putting the pills back in the bottle.

 

It’s forever before they do let go of each other. She wants the warmth of his body back close to her the moment it’s gone, the soft sound of his every breath tickling her ear. Inexplicably, she wants to sob like a child.

 

Instead she swallows tightly, ignoring the ache in her temples and chest. “Earlier I was thinking about what we’re going to do about the people still out there.”

 

It’s probably a terrible time to bring it up but the guilt is killing her.

 

“I know. You’re better than I am, the best really. Strong.”

 

She doesn’t know what to say again. Sometimes she still expects him to suddenly crack a joke.

 

“We need to figure out some plans. Today, while we eat.” Juliet is done procrastinating.

 

Shawn stares back at her for a moment, assessing her. “Ok.”

 

“Lassiter! Michael, Dylan!! Sandwiches are ready!”

 

Lassiter comes in first.

 

“Lassiter, I’m-” Shawn starts.

 

“Don’t. You don’t need to apologize. Just make sure something actually changes,” Lassiter interrupts firmly.

 

He brushes past them and grabs his sandwich.

 

“God, I’m sick of these.”

 

“If it ends up being the last thing I ever eat I’m going to be so disappointed,” Michael agrees, entering the room with Dylan at his side.

 

“Well we’re three days past the bread’s expiration date so this is probably one of the last days of sandwiches,” Shawn offers.

 

“Michael, how much longer do you think until you can remove Lassiter’s stitches?” Juliet asks, trying to make it sound like a casual question.

 

“About a week, probably. Is there a reason? It’s healing very well. Nothing to worry about,” Michael assures in between chewing his sandwich.

 

Juliet is jealous. Her sandwich sits like a rock, thick and dry in her mouth.

 

“They’re trying to ascertain when I will be perfectly healthy again,” Lassiter pauses to stare at the two of them, “even though I’m already fine. Whatever the plan is we can do it now. There is no reason to wait for my stitches to come out.”

 

“Oh, except for the part where you just recently got shot-”

 

“Grazed.”

 

“-and still have limited mobility. We will wait for the stiches to come out, Carlton,” Juliet insists, glaring at Lassiter.

 

“I’m not sure I understand what’s going on here,” Michael says wearily after a moment of tense silence.

 

“There are other survivors out there, like you, like us. We have a safe place here with food, weapons, medical supplies, and even a doctor now,” Shawn explains slowly, “We can help people. We just have to go out and find them. Advertise. We need Lassiter back in tip top shape though before we go risking anything.”

 

Juliet’s not really surprised when Michael just nods and asks, “So what’s our plan?”

 

Our.

 

Dylan wants to make signs they can tape up around town and on the front doors telling people this is a safe place. Juliet tells them about the megaphone she found in one of the storage closets. Lassiter suggests using their portable radios to broadcast a message every few hours over a few different frequencies. It’s a long shot that anyone will hear but it’s something they can start now in the safety of the station and it gives them more range. Michael, practical, thinks if they want more people here they need to make another trip to the store.

 

Shawn doesn’t really contribute an idea but he agrees to help and remains attentive the entire conversation.

 

Another week goes by of waiting.


	19. Don't You Remember the Days When Strategy Was Just a Game

_

  
“War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.”

_

-J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers 

Chapter 19: Don't You Remember the Days When Strategy Was Just a Game

 

In the week they wait, Lassiter prepares.

 

He steps back, detaches and watches his companions, categorizing weaknesses and strengths.

 

Michael is for the most part an unknown element. Something to be used, but not fully trusted. He’s a doctor, which is absurdly lucky. The kind of lucky that happens only in TV and movies, not real life. The man can shoot, not well, but he can and he wants to survive so there’s that. He still feels indebted to them which is unnecessary but Lassiter’s not above using that in a crisis. His son while giving him further incentive to help to defend them all, could also serve as a liability.

 

Dylan is a child, apocalypse or not. In a pinch he has his bat. The kid has a rape whistle too because however well he’s adjusted to his disability, he’s still mute. He’s a liability in that Lassiter’s pretty positive they would all risk their lives to save him. He gives them all something to focus on though, a single ray of light. If nothing else, he’s been a point of distraction for Shawn, kept him sane.

 

Spencer, sometimes, less rarely than before Shawn in his thoughts, is observant, fast, a better shot than himself, suspicious, willing to risk his life. Spencer is also unstable, rash, and liable to disobey an order. His nightmares mean he’s tired all the time. For all Henry’s hard work and desire to make his son a cop, Lassiter can see it never would have panned out even if Shawn had been more agreeable. Shawn is too independent, too alive, too emotional for it to have ever worked.

 

Juliet, barely ever O’Hara anymore, is a great shot, quick on the uptake, a planner and a doer, willing to risk her life. He can trust her, has trusted her to have his back for seven years now. Her compassion could potentially make her take unnecessary risks though.

 

Lassiter focuses on his physical state to avoid thinking about any of his other possible weaknesses. He does stretches, push-ups, sit-ups, and jogs up and down the stairs. After the first day he coerces Spencer into joining him. If there was ever anyone who needed to exhaust himself, it was Spencer.

 

He gets Juliet to agree to locking up their supplies, the food, water, and weapons. They cannot trust any newcomers, not really.

 

He finds Nyquil in the front desk area the next day and makes Shawn take two pills that night. He, Juliet, and Michael take shifts that night. It’s not really a long-term solution but it will give Shawn a full night’s sleep every now and then. Makes him less irritable during the day.

 

In between his lessons and making posters with Spencer, Lassiter teaches Dylan to use a stun gun.

 

It’s little things, little progress but nonetheless.


	20. Schrodinger's Cat for Pessimists

 

_"And the idea that none of us can truly know anything at all-not the lives of our friends or family, not even ourselves-is a thought they'd rather be shot in the arm with their own semi-automatic rifle than face head-on. Personally, I think there's something terrific about not knowing, relinquishing man's feeble attempt to control. When you throw up your hands, say, 'Who knows?' You can get on with the sheer gift of being alive.”_

 

-Marisha Pessl, Special Topics in Calamity Physics

Chapter 20: Schrodinger's Cat for Pessimists

 

On Tuesday, the day before they leave, their routine is interrupted. In the early hours of the morning when the station is still more dark than light, Shawn hears something.

 

He’s been absentmindedly playing a game of tic-tac-toe with himself on the ground.

 

The first time he hears the sound, it is distant and quiet, so he ignores it. The dead do meander around outside the station, a lot sifting curiously through the pile of ashes in the parking lot. They have yet to try entering though beyond the occasionally pawing at the locked doors.

 

Shawn firmly believes that this is temporary, that right now there are still plenty of bodies to feed on, that the dead will soon be desperate for meat. That no amount of locked, barricaded doors will be able to save them then.

 

Shawn also knows that while there is plenty of food now, they will run out one day.

 

This peace is temporary and it is driving him mad.

 

The second time he hears the sound he registers exactly what it is. Someone is actually trying to open the door; it is distinctly, at least to Shawn, different from the sound of the dead trying to open the door. Theirs a more uncoordinated pawing at the door, a yanking, harsh sound.

 

What Shawn hears is the deliberate attempt at turning a doorknob, not to mention that the first time he heard it, it came from the front door but now is at the back.

 

As he realizes this, knocking begins. It is quiet muffled by the thickness of the door and the person on the other side is clearly tentative. It will happen once, quick, and pause for several seconds before happening again.

 

Somebody, alive and well, is at the door. Possibly a person that somehow heard their radio broadcasts.

 

Shawn is at the back door, hand on the lock before he stops to think about what he’s about to do. He does not know who is another side, figures there is a very real possibility that this person is bad. This person will lie and beg and trick them into trust and complacency until the night he or she slits their throats and takes all their food and weapons. He can see it all happening like a movie reel of bad choices.

 

Shawn does not have faith in the human condition, he believes that people are bad. He’s certain that times like now, the apocalypse, aren’t going to suddenly turn people honest and generous. Juliet, despite her job, does not agree. Shawn often wonders, especially these days, if it is naiveté or something else, some faith, some belief in change.

 

Shawn knows he is a bad person; that he would kill to protect himself and the people he cares about.

 

He could ignore that person outside their door, probably desperate, needing help and safety. He knows that this person is likely precisely why Juliet wanted to be here, to help and protect.

 

He could ignore this person, let them die at the back door. Anything to keep the people he loves safe, right?

 

When he does decide it has nothing to do with his morals or fear, nothing to do with the type of person behind the door. He opens the door because he is curious and bored and no matter who this other person is, Shawn can do worse.

 

He hopes that they prove Juliet right but he expects the opposite.


	21. Your Past Isn't a Minefield, It's a Graveyard

__

_“There are moments when I wish I could roll back the clock and take all the sadness away, but I have the feeling that if I did, the joy would be gone as well.”_

  


― Nicholas Sparks, A Walk to Remember 

Juliet wakes up confused. She knows with an uneasy feeling that something woke her up she just doesn’t know what it was. Eyes still shut, she listens carefully, holding her breath. It’s a moment before she hears anything. Voices. Shawn and someone else. 

Not Lassiter. He’s still asleep beside her. Even when Michael and Dylan share a cot, leaving one open, Shawn, Lassiter and her will share the one, rotating in and out of it as they did that second night. 

Michael, at this point, takes regular shifts as well, and then all three of them will pile into the cot together. It’s ridiculous and they don’t really fit and they won’t talk about it but it’s right. It works for them. 

She turns her head to see Michael and Dylan also both asleep in a shared cot. 

Someone else is here. 

“Carlton. Carlton,” She whispers urgently, shaking his shoulder. 

She untangles herself from him and rolls off the cot, grabbing her gun.

“Lassiter! Get up.”

He mumbles something and tries to roll away from her before sitting up and growling at her. 

“What?” 

“There’s someone here, someone’s out there with Shawn.” He freezes, like her, eyes glazed, concentrating on the distant murmur of voices. 

He nods. 

“Come on,” Juliet urges, “We’ll stay out of sight until we know what’s going on.”

They exit the armory, quiet, down the hallway. Juliet flicks the safety off her gun. Knows rationally she shouldn’t expect the worse, but she does, she really does. Knows that it is definitely the sound of another voice so it’s not one of the dead but it could be someone here to kill them, take everything they have. You’ve got be cruel in this new world. 

She thinks that she would to do bad things, horrible things to save Shawn or Lassiter, Michael and Dylan now too. 

They round the corner then and Juliet freezes, the part of her that has always favored ignoring problems until they go away desperately wants to turn away, the other part that has always been too emotional wants to run forward and join the hug. 

Because she knows the woman in front of her, squeezing Shawn, of course she does. They’ve all met her enough by now. Francine McNabb, Buzz’s wife. 

She’s sobbing uncontrollably into Shawn’s shoulder and when they get closer Juliet can hear that she’s speaking too. 

“I knew! I knew he was gone. He had to be. He would’ve come found me, would have contacted me if he were… I knew. I knew. I tried to tell myself. Buzz. Buzz,” she chokes out between sobs. 

Shawn isn’t saying anything, as far as Juliet can tell. What is there to say anyway? He’s just running his hands up and down her back, squeezing her to him. 

Juliet remembers their wedding in pieces. She was still relatively new to the department then. She had been there a month maybe. She remembers Buzz inviting her, shy and too, too kind, explaining that him and Francine had sent out the invitations before she had transferred to the SBPD but they would both love if she could attend. Buzz telling her that Francine would adore her. 

A small, traditional ceremony. Their flower girl tripping down the aisle. She remembers watching their first dance and thinking she had never seen two people so completely content with each other, comfortable, home. 

She remembers too, making a joke about her endless takeout dinners, Chinese, pizza, Mexican. Buzz instantly inviting her to their house, telling her Francine was a chef for one of the local restaurants and was always testing some new recipe on him. 

Shawn telling her one day that Francine and Buzz met in fifth grade, became best friends, started dating in high school and had been together since. 

She remembers sitting at their kitchen table, Francine feeding her some Korean delicacy, the recipe passed down through her family. Her and Buzz regaling her with stories about Lassiter from before she joined the department. 

The yellow wallpaper in their kitchen. Their coffee cup collection. The way they said each other’s names. 

She remembers Francine stopping by the station to share a quick lunch with Buzz, the two of them hunched over a desk, faces close, laughing. Buzz winding a lock of Francine’s long black hair around his finger, smiling at her. 

Juliet does not want to remember. 

She steps forward and rests a hand on Francine’s shoulder. 

She flinches hard and Juliet should have known better. She rips her hand back fast, guilty, and tries not to cry. 

“Hey. Hey. Fran. It’s just Juliet and Lassiter.”

Francine turns quickly, stepping out of Shawn’s arms, pulling herself up straight. She sniffles, tears still dripping down her face. 

“Juliet!”

Juliet thinks she’s stronger than them in that moment. 

And Juliet is so selfish. The worst, really. But the thought has already escaped. Here Francine is and all Juliet can think is here is another person to save Shawn, here is another person to bring him out of his depression.

Here is another person he can lose. Here is another person she can lose. 

Francine throws her arms around Juliet and squeezes, oblivious to Juliet’s turmoil. “I’m so glad you all are okay… Oh god. I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Oh Carlton. Come here. You too,” she gasps, leaving Juliet’s arms. 

After she’s squeezed each of them in turn, Francine stands there, wiping the tears away with a certain finality, like that was the last time she was going to let herself cry. 

She smiles-it’s a wavering, fragile thing, temporary but it’s there. 

Then she cocks her head to the side, looking past Lassiter, looking for someone and she opens her mouth and Juliet instantly, like an icepick stabbed in the gut, knows what she’s about to say.

It starts strong, confident in the answer but she must realize in the next second because she whispers his name like a prayer. 

“Where’s-is Gus?”


End file.
